


what we left behind

by officialvampyr



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Minor Margrave Gautier, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-War, Sharing a Bed, Snow Shenanigans, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, homoerotic swordfighting, referenced canon typical violence, slowburn speedrun, snowstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvampyr/pseuds/officialvampyr
Summary: Faerghus was no stranger to snow, especially as far north as Gautier territory was. Felix could recall many mornings during the Ethereal Moon where he would wake up, giddy to see his castle and home blanketed by white powder. It had been a comfort, back in those days; it lead to play, to leisure, to fond memories. Now? Now snow was nothing but a nuisance, particularly when sudden and unexpected, to the point where his seemingly routine visit to Gautier becomes an extended holiday.OrFelix and Sylvain get stranded in a snowstorm.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 29
Kudos: 286





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Felix Hugo Fraldarius underestimated just how brutal the winters in Gautier were.

It was not supposed to go like this.

Felix had thought nothing of it when he received a missive from Margrave Gautier; it was a simple request that they renegotiate their trade agreement. It was, essentially, his first official meeting with the Margrave since inheriting his late father’s title; a formality more than anything else, since their territories were still in good standing and had close ties with one another. He had sent his confirmation two days after, and then the next week, he departed with his small retinue of soldiers. He only planned to be gone for a few days. He left the proper arrangements to keep his house in line, packed his bag, and departed. He knew the ride like the back of his hand. He could probably navigate it blind.

It was all very routine.

That was, of course, until it wasn’t.

A storm pushed him forward, chasing him from the south. It wasn’t yet spring, but usually the temperatures at the tail end of winter were not sufficient enough to cause a snowstorm. Gautier territory was a cold beast on its own, and he supposed it was his fault for underestimating the landscape. Warm winds pushing from the south brought more moisture in to the air, and before he knew it, blue skies faded to cloudy greys, and he was reaching for his thick cloak and fur-lined hood. Within hours, Felix was riding through the first flurries, already beginning to stick to the ground. The trek was long for a single day, but he did not want to chance what might happen if he pulled over somewhere for the night. His intuition was rewarded when, long after the sun had set, Felix rode up to Castle Gautier, surrounded by a foot of snow. His horse exhaled frantically, heavy breaths forming thick clouds that billowed out from its nostrils. Felix ran a gloved hand over his horse's flank, attempting to calm it. Sensing relief, the horse seemed renewed with energy, eager for food, water, and the warmth of the stables.

A squire met him at the stables—as well as his old friend.

He hadn’t seen Sylvain since the king’s coronation, about two months ago. While they had all lingered around for a few months, attending to various duties, reluctant to leave one another, eventually duty called. Felix had a house to attend to, neglected since his father’s death. Sylvain had his own duties, as well, and if Felix were being obvious, the separation had been tangible. It was a strange thing to get used to; he had spent every second with his classmates and friends over the past year, wishing for nothing but some goddamn alone time, and when he finally got it, he found himself left wanting.

Two months was not a lot of time, in the grand scheme of things. Sylvain looked the same, with his messy ginger hair, but he was now without all the armor. He didn’t even bother to wear layers, despite trekking into the snow out to the stables. Snowflakes caught in his hair, melted on his shoulders. He smiled, big and warm, his breath steaming when he let out a laugh. “Hey, Felix,” he greeted, and before Felix had a chance to react, he was pulled into a hug.

He was overwhelmed with momentary warmth as his face was pressed into Sylvain’s chest and kept there. He could feel his nose slowly beginning to thaw, and he exhaled against his friend, shoulders relaxing. It almost felt like home.

Of course, the sentimental emotions and the extra thrum in his heartbeat was only due to requiring warmth and a cup of tea. It had nothing to do with Sylvain hugging him. He shoved Sylvain off of him. “Get off me, you oaf. It’s freezing out here.” He brushed snowflakes off his shoulder. “Couldn’t you have done that _inside_?”

Sylvain grinned. Felix noted his cheeks were rosy, even in the low torchlight. “No, because if I had, you would’ve reacted faster.” He touched his index finger to his temple, emphasizing his stroke of genius.

Felix rolled his eyes. Sylvain was a quick-thinker, adept at finding one's weakness--and this time, it was Felix's near frozen extremities and limited reflexes. He wasn't going to compliment him on it, though. Without waiting for Sylvain, he began walking towards the castle.

With his ridiculously long legs, he easily caught up. “I’ll warm you up, if you’d like,” he purred, words dripping with innuendo.

He felt a stroke of warmth, burrowed low in his gut, flare to life. It was promptly ignored, and he quickened his pace towards the castle. “I’ll pass,” he replied, over his shoulder.

Still, Sylvain kept in pace with him. “How was your ride? We weren’t expecting you ‘til tomorrow, but I figured you might come sooner, given the weather.”

“Cold.” Finally, they crossed the boundary into the castle, where warmth shocked his frozen fingers. The sensation left his fingertips feeling burnt. He tugged off his gloves, rubbing his hands together. Sylvain, in nothing but his white shirt and trousers, was completely unbothered by the chill. Felix stepped closer to the fire, beginning to strip himself of his wet and cold gear. First went the cloak, then the layer directly under it, his belts, his sword… A blanket was then draped over him, Sylvain’s hands pressing against his shoulder blades. He massaged small circles, the friction sparking warmth that made Felix sigh.

This time, Felix did not brush him off. “Where’s your father?” he asked, glancing around, as if expecting him to appear. While not the most polite of the lords, the Margrave usually had the decency to at least greet his guests when they arrived. Felix, despite having fought in a war, felt as though he still had not earned the man’s respect, and that he was still seen as the sniveling little child that his son grew up with. Were Sylvain not at the castle, Felix probably would have denied the invitation, and told him to come to Fraldarius instead.

The snow was the first sign that things were not going according to plan.

The second sign was when Sylvain replied with a nervous chuckle, and said, “He hasn’t returned yet. He was visiting the fort on the border with Sreng. I believe he’s stuck in bad weather.”

“When was he due back?” Perhaps it was too much to hope that he had frozen to death.

“Yesterday.”

Felix huffed. “And what, he didn’t think to send a raven?”

“Yeah I think you need to lower your expectations of my father, Fe,” he chuckled. The hands shifted to his shoulders, the hinge where his bicep met shoulder, and squeezed. “Better?”

He was sufficiently defrosted—and sniffly. “Moderately.” His nose was beginning to burn as heat worked its way back into it, and he sniffled pointedly.

“You hungry?”

At the mention of hunger, Felix’s stomach promptly growled.

Sylvain chuckled. “Take that as a yes.”

He was guided towards the kitchens. Felix was not surprised by this; Sylvain was usually quite diligent about not disturb his staff if he could avoid it. In a small cauldron over the fire, he began reheating leftover stew from that night’s supper. Felix gnawed on a slice of bread while it heated, thoroughly ravenous. When he finished off his slice of bread, he went poking through the pantries and cabinets, snacking on various fruits and slices of cheese he could find.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite,” Sylvain pointed out.

“Bite me.”

He was getting a little hangry, but he figured it was justified. Again, he had just rode across both their territories in one day. He was sore and tired, and the moisture from the snow and the heat from his horse had caused his thighs to chafe uncomfortably.

Finally the soup was heated, and Sylvain poured it into a bowl and pushed it towards him. It felt strange to be the only one eating, but that didn’t stop him. He scooped a chunk of potato with his spoon and shoved it into his mouth, pleased by the stew’s rich flavor.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the redhead offered, giving him a small smile.

Felix raised a brow. “Why?”

He chuckled in response. “You’re always so suspicious about everything, Felix.” He leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen, regarding him as if he might evaporate into smoke. “I haven’t heard from you in a while, that’s all. I was getting worried.” His gaze turned downward, suddenly finding the tile of the countertop surface to be quite interesting. “I thought I’d done something to get on your bad side.”

He slurped down another bite, using it as a means to hide his disappointment. Not in Sylvain, but in himself. He truly didn’t think that his absence would go noticed.

Things had been… different, since the war ended.

When they had been inseparable during the war, it seemed abruptly ended when the war reached its climax. They no longer had a need to spend so much time with one another, and it became apparent that they couldn’t. Sylvain was called home to Gautier almost immediately, his father eager to help Sylvain inherit his title—because being a revered war general was not enough, apparently, to convince him of his worthiness. Sylvain acted in correspondence between the Margrave and the king for a while, staying at the palace. Dimitri tried to keep Sylvain as a retainer as well—wanted to make him his war chief, his strategist. Sylvain had no interest, though, and Felix almost wished he had the guts to turn down His Majesty in that way. Instead, Felix had been recruited as one of Dimitri’s advisors, just as his father had been.

Had Felix been alone in those first few months, he would have felt the sting of Sylvain’s absence more prevalently, but surrounded by everyone at the palace, it was easy to get lost in the paperwork and the job. Everything happened suddenly. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and then the king had his coronation. Felix was granted leave to return home, to attend to his house, and Sylvain had long gone by then. His absence was noticeable, but it was not crippling. Sylvain was the person Felix sought out when he felt on edge, and suddenly, he had no one to lean on. His notice only grew when he returned home, completely devoid of contact. Then, he threw himself into his work for other reasons—to stay busy, to forget. He missed Sylvain, but he didn’t _want_ to miss Sylvain.

Eventually, the sore on his heart healed.

“I wrote you letters,” Sylvain murmured.

Now, that sore was opening up again. “I know. I read them. I meant to respond, but…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Fe. I know you’re busy.”

It had taken years for Felix to convince himself he didn’t need anyone, that he was stronger alone. He was, in some sense. On the battlefield, he was a unit by himself. He worked best without needing to command his own cavalry. But the battles were over, and there was no more fighting to do. Without that purpose, he felt weak. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I missed you,” Felix blurted out, still staring into his stew. “If that counts for anything.”

Sylvain shifted upright, smiling at him. “Aw, Fe. Are you going soft on me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Everything’s still a joke to you, I see.”

“Nonsense. I missed you, too. Why do you think I wrote?”

Felix made a show of looking about the castle. “Because you’re cold and devoid of any human contact?” He finished his stew. “No wonder you’re trying to bed anything that moves.” Felix could see himself being driven to keep someone in his bed, just to warm it.

“You make me sound like I’m easy.”

Felix gave him a brief once-over. “You are.” He walked towards the sink, placing his empty bowl in it. He felt better now, at least, with food in his stomach.

Sylvain, wisely, did not argue, even if he did toss his head back and laugh. He really _did_ seem happy that Felix was there with him, which was something he couldn’t quite adjust to. It was like the past few months of distance didn’t even happen—they were picking up right where they left off. It was refreshing, in one way, even if it did only increase Felix’s guilt about not writing him back. Some part of him whispered _it could have been like this the whole time_ , but he doubted he would have known what to say, even if he did write Sylvain back. Words didn’t come as easy to him as they did to Sylvain.

“Want me to show you to your room now?”

“I can get there myself.” He’d had the same bedroom since they were children. It was basically an apartment in the west wing, with a full bedroom, bathroom, and sitting area. It nearly mirrored Sylvain’s in size.

Sylvain picked up Felix’s overnight bag, insistent. “C’mon, let me walk with you.”

“I’m not going to disappear overnight, Sylvain,” he sighed. There was a part of him, however, that was thrilled. He figured it was just at the prospect of a warm bed and a fire, and not Sylvain escorting him through the castle.

“Just indulge me?”

“Fine.” After a moment, he added, “You’re a sap.”

“Because I want to spend more time with my lifelong friend?”

Felix softened, just a bit. He did give a little huff of a laugh, though, shaking his head slightly as he grabbed a bottle of wine off the rack. “Shall we have a drink then?”

The way Sylvain’s eyes lit up was ephemeral. “I’d love that.”

They made their way to Felix’s rooms, the route ingrained in both of their memories. Sylvain draped an arm around Felix’s shoulders as they walked, informing him about the rising pressure they had been receiving from Sreng that had caused his father to go north. Felix wasn’t surprised, of course. After the collapse of the three kingdoms, the surrounding countries had started to stir. Revolt seemed to be on everyone’s minds. While Almyra tended to keep out of Fódlan politics, Sreng was not so easily quelled. It was the Margrave’s opinion to keep the peace with force—which, in Felix’s mind, wasn’t keeping peace at all. That was intimidation.

“Your father’s an idiot,” Felix groused as they ducked into his room. Sylvain reluctantly removed his arm as they huddled in, but his hand found its way to the small of Felix’s back shortly after, ever eager for physical affection.

Sylvain laughed. “I think idiocy plagued our parent’s generation, unfortunately.” They could only hope to raise a better, more level-headed generation of their own.

Felix spun around, placing the wine bottle in Sylvain’s hand, which was still reaching for him. “Open this.”

“Say please.”

“Now,” Felix growled, stalking towards the bathroom. He stripped out of the remainder of his wet clothes and into something softer and more comfortable. Soft sleep-pants and a turtleneck sweater. He was very eager to get rest, but he knew Sylvain needed his attention first. He grabbed the blanket off the back of the sofa and settled in. A moment later, a wine glass was presented to him and Sylvain joined him, picking at a corner of the blanket so they shared.

Felix took in a few moments to drink in the comfort of this. There was a strange familiarity that came flooding back to him. The smell of the castle, the way it creaked and groaned. Sylvain’s warm presence beside him. He was so _isolated_ in Fraldarius territory. “How have things been here? Manageable?” Felix asked, scooting just a little closer to Sylvain, so that their thighs touched.

Sylvain, naturally, took this as an invitation to put a hand on his thigh, thumb gently caressing. “More or less. My father’s been keeping me busy.”

“With what?”

“Runs, mostly. He sends me as representative to basically everything now. It’s exhausting. I thought I’d gotten enough of nobles jerking it to one another at the academy.” He yawned.

That got Felix to laugh. “Welcome to my world.”

“My father makes it sound like he’s keen on retiring early, but at the same time, he never seems impressed with anything I accomplish.”

Felix felt himself bristle a little at that. He was aware of the tension Sylvain had with his father and, frankly, knowing the family history, he considered it just as toxic and bad for Sylvain’s health as Miklan had been. Just because his father wasn’t throwing him in a well did not mean he was in the healthiest of environments. That had always been something they had in common—their shitty fathers and their equally shitty expectations. At least Felix didn’t have to worry about that anymore. “It doesn’t get easier,” Felix said softly. Rodrigue’s reputation was strapped to him wherever he went, and Felix felt like he had to perform to some standard to keep alliances.

Unfortunately for them, he refused. Felix was making more noise than Rodrigue ever had, and he would continue to do so until he engraved _Duke Felix Fraldarius_ into every corner of Fódlan.

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

Felix took a long swig of his drink. “You don’t need my encouragement. Everyone already knows you’ll be the best Margrave this shithole has ever seen.” It was unclear what he meant by shithole—Fódlan itself or Gautier—and frankly he wasn’t even sure what he meant. 

“Ah, maybe with you with me, I will.”

Felix bumped his shoulder. “You know you always have me.”

Sylvain smiled. “I know.”

But that was enough affection for one evening, wasn’t it?

Felix transitioned the conversation to their peers. He inquired if Sylvain had spoken with anyone, how they were doing, further expressed regret that he had not done a better job at keeping up with everyone while internally wondering why he cared to begin with. He didn’t rely on people, and he had been very clear that no one should rely on him. War changes people, though, he supposed, and he missed _them_ , missed this. He thought to all the nights he had spent huddled next to Sylvain in front of a fire, wondering if they were going to die the next day. Now it was different—an eerie calm that promised they would continue to see a new dawn. They continued to talk late into the evening, until the wine was drained and Felix was nearly slumping against Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain practically had to tuck him in when he left.

And Felix slept, buffered by the snow outside and blanketed by quilts that smelled like home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a Felix to do when he's in a desolate, frozen landscape?
> 
> Homoerotic swordfights and playing in the snow.

Of all the people in the north, Sylvain Jose Gautier had to be the only one daring enough to walk around half-naked in his extremely drafty castle. The blizzard had only increased overnight, and Felix could feel the cold seeping through the floorboards. While many of the rooms were warmed by hearty fires, the corridors and main rooms were left susceptible to the chill. He doubted that the house had prepared for such a storm this time of year, and was woefully unprepared; Sylvain’s staff busied themselves with insulating the windows and doors, trying to keep out the cold, while outside, it continued to snow. For these reasons, Felix tried to keep to his rooms, but Sylvain coaxed him out for lunch.

Lunch and a show, it seemed.

The sitting room was cool, the curtains on the windows pulled back to reveal the miles of white that stretched on either side of the castle, as well as the cloud-cover that only promised more misery. Despite the wintery wonderland outside, however, Felix’s attention was drawn to Sylvain. He was similarly dressed to last night; loose fitted shirt and tight trousers, but this time, the shirt was half-unlaced, revealing the milky white of his chest and torso. He stretched, gangly limbs sprawled in a significant man-spread, with a book in his hand. He looked every bit a bored, vapid nobleman with nothing to do but sit around looking pretty. He looked up when Felix came in, smiled that charming smile of his, and set his book down.

“Would it kill you to put some clothes on?” Felix sighed, summoning as much disgust into his tone as he could and trying desperately to ignore the heat he could feel in his cheeks. “Aren’t you cold?” Felix himself was back in all of his layers, and desperately wishing he had the hindsight to pack more. The fur of his cloak tickled his neck.

Sylvain, however, simply laughed, wrangling in all those limbs of his to sit up straight in his chair. “This is pretty warm, compared to some of the freezes we get here. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve always been warm blooded, though.” He cast a glance to the window. "Sometimes it gets too cold to snow."

He wasn't sure it was possible to be 'too cold to snow' but he didn't care enough to argue it. Felix remembered how Sylvain would complain about the warmth even at Garreg Mach. The monastery was still nestled in the hills, but he could whine on sunny days about the heat. He watched as Sylvain rose to put another log on the fire before he returned to his seat. Felix followed, sitting across from him, noting that Sylvain had left him the seat closest to the fire. Warmth tickled his back.

“I could be wearing less.”

Their eyes met over the table.

“I don’t doubt it. You take every opportunity you can to take your clothes off.”

Sylvain laughed, lifting his hands to concede his point. “I give the ladies what they want, what can I say.”

He rolled his eyes. “Any news from your father?”

“Nope. I think it’s too stormy to try and send a raven.”

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is such a waste of time.”

“Oh, there must be worse fates than being snowed in with me,” Sylvain replied, looking like a lover scorned.

This was true, although worse would probably be being snowed in with His Majesty the king himself. Felix wasn’t sure he could suffer the self-sacrificing attitude. “But there are also better fates,” he argued, smiling a little to let Sylvain know he was joking.

“It’s just you and me, Fe. Whatever will we do to pass the time?” He fluttered his lashes, leaning conspiratorially across the table.

Felix cocked his head to the side, smirk slowly growing.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind, Felix,” Sylvain sighed. He had a lance in one hand and a sword in the other, weighing his options on which to fight with. If he were smart, he’d choose the lance. Sword fighting had never been his strong suit, even with Felix coaching him in the past. Lance would give him a distance advantage, which Felix would have to work around.

Gautier, due to its notoriously cold weather, had a training grounds indoors. After lunch, they’d made the cold walk to the grounds, which was housed in an adjacent building next to the castle. The staff had cleared paths during the morning, but inches of snow were already piling up. To either side of the paths, two feet of snow loomed. He was grateful they were inside, even if it was bitter and cold, the hearth empty, but it was buffered from the winds, and they’d build body heat on their own anyway. The metal weapons were appropriately frozen, so they decided to choose wood. Felix slipped out of his cloak, set it delicately aside. He had opted for his turtleneck today, the wool significantly warm, but he could still feel the noticeable difference without his furs. He focused on stretching while Sylvain mulled over his weapon options. “When was the last time you picked up a lance?” he asked wryly, pulling his fingers backwards over his wrist, feeling the stretch of his forearm and wrist.

“Hmm, you don’t want to know the answer to that,” came the amused reply.

Felix rolled his eyes. “You’ve gone soft.” He did not think for a second that they were free from danger, and the riots that continued to pop up over the country were proof of just that. Felix continued his daily training, just in case.

“Have not,” he argued, petulantly.

“Not interested in your excuses, Gautier.”

Sylvain inevitably chose the lance. “Not giving any, Fraldarius. Maybe you should come by more to keep me in shape.” He waggled his brows.

Extending one arm behind his head, he used the other to pull his elbow towards that arm. “I’m busy trying to run a house. _You_ could come see me.”

The grin that Sylvain gave him was wolfish and satisfied. “I accept your invitation. If your trade agreement goes well with my father, perhaps I can spend _considerable_ time at your castle, your grace.”

He groaned. That wasn’t what he meant, but the idea did not sound… horrendous. It would be more of this, wouldn’t it? More banter, less time spent alone. Felix’s staff constantly commented that he seemed lonely, but he assured them that he did not need to rely on anyone else. He pointedly ignored the comments they made in regards to a spouse—how a wife would keep him company, how a wife would benefit the house. Felix alternated arms, lost in thought.

The lack of comment, lack of denial, only gave Sylvain more to run with. His grin could split his face in half. It caused Felix to roll his eyes again. “There’s nothing for you in Fraldarius. You know none of the women there trust you.”

There was a chip in Sylvain’s smile, a falter that he barely caught. “Ah, no need to worry about that. My father has been hard at work finding me an eligible bachelorette.”

Felix felt a pang in his chest at that. “Oh?” He knew Sylvain didn’t want to marry, especially so soon after the war, but his father had _always_ been insistent on securing heirs. “Has he found anyone?”

“The current prospect is some Marquess, a noblewoman from the former Empire.” He sounded bored, utterly uninterested in the conversation. “Nothing’s set in stone yet, though.”

He felt a flutter. It might have been hope—but for what, he wasn’t sure. “I see.” Felix finished his stretches, then picked up his sword. “Ready?”

“Oh, I get a warning this time?” That playfulness was back, the awkwardness forgotten.

Felix did not wait for him, though. Instead, he lunged. Sylvain’s instincts kicked in, bringing his lance up to block seconds before the wooden sword clattered against it. Felix pressed against him, testing Sylvain’s strength. The lance didn’t give, and he smiled, just a little impressed. His smile was mirrored on the other’s face, and Felix realized he wasn’t even really trying to hold Felix back. This was further emphasized when the redhead shoved his lance, pushing the swordsman several feet backwards. Not so soft after all, then. He used the momentum to push forward again, this time driving his sword up in an uppercut.

They continued on like that, for a while. To both of their surprises, Sylvain took the first round—but none of the subsequent ones after. Seeming to adjust to Sylvain’s adequacy, Felix continued a brutal assault until both of them were exhausted and out of breath. Sylvain lay prone on the ground, the tip of Felix’s wooden sword still pointed at his throat. Sylvain’s copper eyes met his, a stupid smirk on his face that caused him to tilt the sword, closing the distance between the tip and his throat. He felt the pressure as Sylvain forced a swallow.

“Satisfied, Fe?” Sylvain asked, lifting his chin with a hint of defiance.

Felix grunted in response, lowering the sword and extending his hand for Sylvain to take. When he did, he pulled Sylvain to his feet. “You might’ve been able to beat me if you’d practiced more,” he said, unwilling to give him a compliment or reward him for slacking off for two months.

“Hey, I’ll take my one win.” He squeezed Felix’s hand—which made Felix realize they were still _holding_ hands—and then released it. He then took the sword from him and walked their weapons back to the rack. “We should go back inside.”

They were in agreement on that. Felix was half convinced his sweat was going to freeze to his skin. Despite still feeling overheated, he put his cloak back on. Sylvain, who still chose not to dress in appropriate layers, fell into step beside him.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling—temporarily. There were still thick grey clouds overhead, promising more, but for the moment, he was struck by the serenity of the landscape. Everything was so quiet and hushed. Gautier Castle was nestled in a handsome location; surrounded by the mountains on either side, with a full pine forest to the east. He paused to admire it.

Sylvain, noticing he wasn’t following, paused, too. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, voice startling in the silence.

Felix turned to look at him. Sylvain was already looking at him, mysterious smile firmly in place. “It was, until you started talking,” he teased. “When we were younger, I always wanted to winter here with you. We don’t get as much snow.” That was a long time ago, though, when winters were full of play and not stifled by duty. Now, at his age, Felix doubted he’d be able to handle the snow for extended periods of time. It wasn’t just the confines that would drive him crazy, but the cold sank deep into old wounds and exacerbated his scars.

Sylvain nodded. “Your father was worried he wouldn’t be able to come get you, though, if something happened.”

“Now I see why.” The most sudden of storms made all travel impossible. However, he could still remember the painful separation of their childhood. Felix and Sylvain wouldn’t see each other for months depending on how bad the snowstorms were. “Except for that one year, where your family stayed in your southern chateau.” All their friends had come, including the royal family. It had snowed on Christmas.

“We built a snowman,” Sylvain smiled.

They _had_ built a snowman. Each of them being six and relatively short (aside from Sylvain, who at eight years old was beginning to hit a growth spurt), they had piled on top of each other to make a significantly large snowman. Felix had sat on Sylvain’s shoulders to decorate the face. Ingrid had scolded him when he had given the snowman angry looking eyebrows and a wicked grin; she claimed it was scary. Felix remembered rather boldly proclaiming he named the evil snowman _Miklan_ , at which Sylvain laughed so hard Felix fell off his shoulders.

“Do you want to build another one?”

Felix regarded him, a tad unimpressed with the request. He kicked the snow with his boot, watching as the flakes flurried around him. “It’s too dry. It won’t pack into a snowman.” Furthermore, it’d be impossible to roll, given that they were banked on either side with two feet of snow. Felix didn’t like the idea of being knee-deep, trying to wrestle a snowman into shape.

Sylvain knelt, grabbed a handful of snow, and in a smooth motion, packed it into a ball and hurled it at Felix. It made contact with his chest, disintegrating into powder that tickled his nose and speckled his hair. “Seems just fine to me.” He was grinning again, kneeling back down to grab another handful.

Felix took four steps back, precise and calculated. “Stop acting like a child.” His knees were bent, ready to move if Sylvain targeted him again.

Which of course, he did. Sylvain threw his handful, the snowball connecting with his shoulder this time. He had tremendous aim and impeccable speed. The bastard. “Make me.”

He was already reaching for a handful of snow to hurl at Sylvain. Ultimately, however, Felix did not have the aim Sylvain did, and the snowball missed by a few inches. The one con of not training with a lance, he supposed, was not having that sharp aim and reflexes. The other howled with laughter, and Felix was rewarded with yet _another_ snowball to his chest. He swore under his breath, packing another snowball and hurling it. That one hit true, snowflakes scattering across Sylvain’s chest, where it made impact on his sternum. He stumbled backwards, slipping on the packed snow, nearly falling into the snowbank.

Felix took the opportunity to rush him, not trusting his throwing skills, and shoved him, hands planted flat on his chest. Sylvain let out a yelp, arms flailing to catch his balance, finding purchase on Felix’s arm, and suddenly, spectacularly, they both succumbed to gravity. Snow erupted on all sides of them as they collapsed into the snowbank, Felix landing on Sylvain’s heavy chest.

The man beneath him was completely unbothered by his predicament—and he was _laughing_ about it, chest rumbling with sheer amusement. It made Felix smile, but he wasn’t finished with his revenge yet. He shifted onto his knees, straddling Sylvain, and then promptly swiped his arm across the top of the snowbank, sending powder down onto the other’s face. _“Felix!”_ Sylvain shouted, reaching for his arms to wrestle him into compliance.

Deftly, Felix avoided him for a few moments, until Sylvain got his massive hands around his hips and _threw him off._ For reasons unknown to him, he found himself laughing, too, even as cold seeped through every possible layer he was wearing, as the ice numbed his fingers and Sylvain, larger than life, dove into the snow after him to pin him down. They wrestled for a few more moments, Felix writhing under him, trying to get away, occasionally throwing handfuls of snow into Sylvain’s face, until the other finally caught his wrists and pinned them above his head.

When the fight died from Felix and the cold began to set in, they simply stared at each other for a moment. Sylvain’s cheeks were red from exertion and the cold; he was breathless and cocky and _it was doing something for Felix_. In fact, it was doing _too much_ for Felix, and he hoped to the goddess that Sylvain didn’t straddle him any more thoroughly. “You win,” Felix muttered, relenting, hoping it would get Sylvain off of him.

It did not. The other merely beamed in response. “What was that?” he purred.

“I’m not repeating it.”

“Did you say I _won_?”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep, that’s what I said.”

“C’mon, tell me I won, one more time.”

“Alright fine you _won_ , you bastard, now _get off of me._ ”

The beam dampened a little to a smirk. “I quite like this view, though.”

Felix felt himself properly flush—not from the cold and not from their wrestling match. “ _Get off!”_

“Okay, okay!” He got off, dusting off his knees in some poor attempt to remove the snow that had already soaked through. He then helped Felix to his feet, dusting off his back and his shoulders. “Let’s get you inside,” he laughed, arm resting across Felix’s lower back, maneuvering him towards the castle. The duke suddenly felt dizzy, and he wondered if he’d hit his head on a rock buried in the snow. He leaned into Sylvain, seeking his warmth, finding himself rewarded with a hand gripping his hip. “How about a bath?”

He hummed in agreement.

They stomped the snow off their boots and shed their layers by a fire. Felix huddled close to it while Sylvain requested the baths to be drawn. He returned shortly after, crowding in behind the duke despite there being plenty of room on either side of him. His arms wrapped loosely around his waist, seeking body heat. Felix shivered—from the cold, of course—and shuffled closer to the flames. He did not push Sylvain off until one of his maids appeared, letting them know that their baths were ready, and Felix chose the enveloping heat of a bath over his friend.

Hours passed.

In his rooms, Felix was beginning to feel like this was more of a vacation than a business trip. He felt a familiar ache in his muscles from their sparring earlier, and more than that, felt a poignant warmth whenever he thought of their play in the snow. Felix felt, oddly enough, rejuvenated. He felt better than he had in moons, as if something had awakened in him. He nearly had a smile on his face when the maid returned to inform him dinner was ready, and nearly smiled when he saw Sylvain, still wearing a purposefully unbuttoned shirt, seated at the table waiting for him.

The good news: the blizzard was finally stopping.

After dinner, the pair of them had gone up to the parapets of the castle, bundled up in their furs. Sylvain claimed it would be good to look at the surrounding area, but Felix suspected he walked with him just to let the duke indulge in the magic of the winter wonderland. And it _was_ magical; now that the skies had cleared, there was nothing but stars. The snow reflected star and moonlight, and the world had an ephemeral glow to it. Sylvain led them to the keep, where they stood atop the tower and simply surveyed the landscape; Sylvain with his forearms resting against the cold stone, Felix seated on a cleared strip. He kept looking up at all the stars, suddenly unbothered by the cold. It didn’t seem so bad when he could see the night sky. Sylvain moved closer to him, so that their bodies touched. Heat flared from the points of contact, and when Felix started shivering, Sylvain pulled him flush against him.

The bad news: they were running out of firewood.

It was brought to their attention after their moonlight stroll. Felix worried at his hands, trying to melt them, as Sylvain and his staff conversed. It was a brief conversation, the decision quickly made.

More bad news: they were moving everyone into the east wing of the castle, so that they could conserve what they had left. The staff was being encouraged to share rooms, and any room not vital was to be left shut and unheated. It was Sylvain’s decision—as well as his decision to dismiss the staff for the evening, encouraging them to be warm and to get a good night’s rest.

Felix’s rooms had been in the west wing, and so he had to pack up his meager belongings and trek through the cold castle.

He entered Sylvain’s chambers without knocking, dumping his bag on the settee.

The rooms had changed much since the last time Felix had seen them, but he supposed that was only fair considering it had been well over a decade since they had spent time together in there. Felix did not have a strong memory of Sylvain’s rooms from when they were children, but he did remember a significant amount of knickknacks. Sylvain liked collecting things, especially when he could attach sentimental value to them. Shelves that once held strange looking rocks, pegasus feathers, monster claws, and whatever else a little boy found interesting instead held books on reason and lance fighting. There were portraits, too, dotted along the fireplace; Felix could note his family members, but most importantly, he saw _at least three_ fully commissioned art pieces of Sylvain’s horse.

Sylvain appeared from the bathroom, toothbrush in one hand, eyebrow raised. “I had a room prepared for you,” he pointed out.

Felix nodded, very much aware of this statement. However, the thought of waking up every few hours to stoke the coals on the fireplace and put a log on the flames was not appealing to him. “Figured we should save the wood. No need to heat up another room when I can just stay with you.” He shrugged. “Besides, we shared a tent during the war.” In their youth, they had shared a bed, too.

He had walked into the rooms Sylvain had assigned for him and had found himself left wanting. It felt much different than the rest of the castle, lacking in familiarity or comfort. He could navigate his room blind, but this felt foreign. This was the kind of room his father would have been put into, with extravagant drapes and a full liquor cabinet. He already missed his usual bed. It was an immediate decision, then; pick up his bags and go to Sylvain’s room instead. If he was going to be trapped in this frozen hell, at least he was going to enjoy it.

The smile Sylvain gave him was strange. It lacked that superficial luster it always had—instead, it was much smaller, more genuine. Felix wondered if he, too, was thinking of their childhood sleepovers and shenanigans. “Just like old times.”

He gave a soft hum of agreement as Sylvain disappeared to finish brushing his teeth. Felix searched his closet for extra blankets he could throw onto the sofa. He found a few quilts, but nothing was sufficient enough, he knew, to keep him warm throughout the night. He frowned at the pile, crossing his arms, hoping it would spontaneously multiply. He could ask one of the servant’s to strip one of the other beds, but he did not want to disturb them when Sylvain had given them the evening off. The draft in the hallways was not enticing enough for him to go on a mission to find them himself, either.

Sylvain returned to his side, also looking at the meager pile of blankets. “You can have the bed, Fe,” he chuckled, as if it were obvious.

“Don’t be stupid. I chose to sleep in your room. I’m not going to put you out any further. Besides, you’ll get cold.”

“I don’t get cold, and you’re the guest.” He gestured towards the bed, which, unfortunately, did look quite inviting, with his mountain of blankets and gratuitous amount of pillows.

Against Felix’s better judgment, a moment later, he said, “We can share it.”

“The bed?” Sylvain looked like he’d been sucker-punched, eyes wide and alarmed. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” he drawled. “It’s like you said. Just like old times. We can share body heat.”

Sylvain, to his credit, chose not to run with Felix’s words, nor did he twist it into an innuendo. He simply nodded. “If you say so.”

It was a bad idea, he knew, especially given Sylvain’s sudden maturity, and the feelings he’d been suffocating under for the past few days. He wasn’t going to back down now, though. Sylvain put more logs on the fire and crawled into bed, and Felix moved into the bathroom to prepare to join him. He brushed his teeth and let his hair down, combing through it with delicate strokes so that it tumbled across his shoulders. He then set about removing his extraneous clothing. He piled his armor neatly on a chair, setting his swords across the table. He slipped out of his thigh-highs, deciding to sleep in his base layer of clothing, and snuffed out the lantern.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitant at first. He tugged at a strand of his own hair, taking interest in it, twirling it around his index finger. The glow of the firelight was tantalizing and warm, casting shifting shadows along the walls as he walked across the room towards the bed. Sylvain lifted the blankets for him, and Felix casually slipped in beside him, as if he had done so a hundred times. There _was_ a familiarity to all this, even if it was strangely overwhelming. Once settled, the blankets pooled at his hips, but he would already smell _Sylvain_ wafting from the soft fabric—the sharp bite of his minty toothpaste, the rich pine of his soap.

The problem was he wasn’t exactly _tired_ yet, and judging by the rate at which his heart hammered in his chest, he doubted he could fall asleep, anyway. He didn’t know why he felt so much adrenaline pumping through his veins. He inhaled slowly.

Sylvain seemed to take this as an indication that something was wrong. He sat up, brows pinched just so. His hand lifted, brushing across Felix’s shoulder. “Everything alright?”

Felix sat up a bit straighter, forced a reassuring smile. “Yeah. I just, uh, forgot to fix my hair.” He began to gather it to one side to braid.

“Allow me?” came the soft reply, followed by an open hand, likely waiting for the tie Felix used. He hesitated for a moment, but relented. He slipped the tie off his wrist and passed it into that waiting hand. Sylvain’s finger slipped across the skin at the base of his neck, pulling all the remaining pieces into one bundle. His touches were delicate, carefully smoothing through Felix’s hair before skillfully twining the pieces together into a plait.

“Where did you learn to braid?” Felix asked, without scorn, although he did assume Sylvain had learned to impress some long-haired damsel.

Sylvain surprised him by replying with, “Ingrid.” Sylvain was taking his time with the braid. Felix wondered if he was reveling in it. “Remember when she had that three week hair crisis and learned a hundred different braids?”

He chuckled. Yes. It was right around puberty. In their youth, Ingrid had preferred to wear her hair down, but soon it grew too long to accommodate for keeping it down. It was also prone to tangle whenever she was on horse or pegasus, so she taught herself how to braid her hair. She preferred it to learning embroidery or needlework, and suddenly it consumed her and the ladies in her family’s castle, because of course everyone wanted to copy their young lady’s style. “You made her teach you how to braid?” he asked, amused.

“I figured it would come in handy someday.”

“And has it?” he hummed. He felt relaxed, that anxiety dripping away in favor of the soft caresses to his hair.

Sylvain smiled. “I’d say so.” He finished the braid, tying it off and letting it drape down Felix’s shoulder. Satisfied, Felix then allowed himself to get comfortable, lowering into the bed and pulling the blankets up to his nose, already feeling warmer and safer than he had the entire trip. He relaxed into the bed, feeling a sense of ease that he hadn’t felt in months.

_Fucking Sylvain._

Sylvain rolled onto his side, suddenly closer under the blankets. Felix could feel his body heat radiating off of him, and his heart skipped in the same way it had when they’d hugged, when Sylvain had pinned him down in the snow. “Comfy?” he asked, sounding amused. He hovered over him, locks of hair falling over his forehead, nearly tickling Felix’s own.

They could kiss, they were so close.

Felix grunted and closed his eyes, attempting to indicate that he wanted to sleep. This wasn’t, after all, one of their childhood sleepovers. He _was_ comfy, though. Comfy and overwhelmed by familiarity. He felt a tickle, the hints of memories; all the times as children that they did have sleepovers, where Felix would help himself into Sylvain’s bed despite the cot or mattress provided for him, and that one time during their academy days, when Felix and Sylvain had studied so late into the night that he’d simply passed out in Sylvain’s rooms, only to awaken in his bed. At the present, Felix couldn’t recall if he’d ever felt so at home in someone else’s bed, nor if he had felt it laying so close to someone else.

“Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?” Sylvain purred, and is breath tickled Felix’s cheek.

His eyes shot open to glare at him. “Oh, were you saving this spot for someone else? I can go—” and he made to leave, rolling to face the edge of the bed, scooting away from Sylvain—

The other acted on impulse, an arm shooting out to snake around Felix’s waist and pull him back into the bed before he’d even had a chance to get a distance away. “Wait, Felix, I’m just joking—!” Both of them paused, stilled by Sylvain’s hasty action. His strength had pulled Felix flush against him, his back to Sylvain’s chest, and both of them were paralyzed from the increased contact. “Um…”

He didn’t seem to know what to do. Frankly, neither did Felix. He stared, wide-eyed, into the dark room. It would have been easy to throw off Sylvain’s arm, to snap at him about his impulses, if Felix truly detested it—but he didn’t. He forced himself to settle back onto the bed, forced himself to relax.

He did not throw off Sylvain’s arm.

“Me too,” Felix said, a heartbeat later. “Joking, that is.” He swallowed thickly, feeling his face heat up.

It took a few moments for those two words to register in Sylvain’s brain, and a few moments longer before he laughed. “Ah, right. Guess I’m not used to that.”

Sylvain did not remove his arm.

It remained comfortably around his waist, even if it did loosen in pressure, no longer forcing him in place. Now, it _draped_ ; a familiar weight, a familiar warmth. “It’s a wonder you can keep anyone in your bed, Sylvain. You see one pretty face and you suddenly forget how to act.”

He shifted, following Felix’s lead and settling into the bed. Felix could feel his breath tickling his hair, a chuckle that sent a shiver down his spine. “Just one face,” he said, quietly.

Felix did not doubt his hearing. He smiled, slightly, despite the blush still vibrant and alive on his cheeks. “No, I’ve seen you. It’s any face.”

“Have you considered perhaps I’m just a fool for you?”

Considered was a funny word. He had not, in fact, considered it. He had, however, obsessed over the potential before deeming it hopeless. Even as the other teased him, it felt hopeless. “Go to sleep, Sylvain.”

Sylvain made a noise, as if he wanted to say something more, but Felix pressed against his chest, so that he was nestled under Sylvain’s chin, and whatever he was going to say suddenly didn’t seem as important. “Goodnight, Felix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, it snowed where I live in the pacific northwest today. Truly wild considering it's mid-March.
> 
> twitter: @mitochondribae  
> tumblr: @officialvampyr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix finally agrees to build that snowman.
> 
> Featuring more bed sharing, h*nd h*lding, and Sylvain continuing to play with Felix's hair.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius was an early riser—always had been. When he was little, he used to get up to watch his brother train, eventually joining him, and it was a routine that had continued. Even when he was not training, he found himself waking early. He was usually the first in the dining hall, which worked in his favor, because he could leave before anyone forced him to socialize. This morning was no different; he woke early, only to find himself unable to move.

In the night, they had only gotten closer, legs tangling and arms draping and Felix’s face pressed into Sylvain’s chest. It was far from unpleasant, but that didn’t stop him from trying to disentangle himself anyway. The process became complicated when Sylvain began to stir, the arm around Felix’s torso tightening. He even _snuggled_ into Felix, nose in his hair. It was horrendously affectionate. “ _Sylvain,_ ” Felix growled, voice thick with sleep.

“Five more minutes,” came the rumble of a response.

“You let the fire go out,” Felix whined, after stretching a hand tentatively out of their blanketed nest. _Now_ he was reluctant to move out of their embrace. It was _freezing_.

“I was comfy.”

Frankly, so was Felix. Sylvain was incredibly warm, and it was only when he tried to wiggle away did he notice the chill. “This was a clever ploy to keep me in bed, wasn’t it?” he huffed.

“Maybe.” He rolled away from him and out of bed, much to Felix’s dismay. The cold truly did not seem to bother him, and Sylvain even _hummed_ while he moved about. Felix took the opportunity to cocoon himself in blankets while Sylvain busied himself with restarting the fire. 

There was the brief smell of smoke as the fire began to regain life. His dream of getting a morning workout in was shot in the foot. If the bedroom was this cold, he could only imagine how the training grounds was faring. “Sylvain,” he said, voice muffled from all the blankets. 

“Yes, dear?”

He grimaced at the petname but didn't admonish him for it. “Breakfast.” He paused. “And a bath.”

“Coming right up.” He sounded remarkably chipper before padding away to go find one of his staff. When he returned, he practically jumped Felix. His arm hooked around his waist, pulling the entire Felix-blanket conglomerate towards him and against him. “Are you going to let me in?” he asked, right into his ear, so that Felix felt the brush of his breath.

He tugged the blankets over his head and suppressed a shiver. “No.”

“ _Please?”_

Well, he couldn’t say no to that. He gave a dramatic sigh, finally releasing his hold on one side of the blankets. Sylvain slipped in next to him, slotting them against one another like before, as if nothing had happened. Felix, still drawn to his warmth, melted into him. “I fucking hate it here,” he grumbled into Sylvain’s chest.

“You like it in the summer. We used to spend all day in the meadows, remember? You and Ingrid would make flower crowns out of the wildflowers.”

He could only dream of summer. It felt like ages away. “I don’t remember what the sun feels like.”

“You’re so melodramatic.”

“I’m _cold_.”

“I know, you baby. You wouldn’t last a real winter here.” He chuckled, one warm hand splaying across Felix’s back and the other curling in the loose hair at the start of his braid.

Felix reached between them, tugging at Sylvain’s night shirt, lifting it until he had access to his torso… and then promptly splayed his icy cold fingers against his abdomen. Sylvain recoiled, hissing from the touch.

“ _Felix why are you so cold?”_

“I told you.” He curled his fingers into a palm, letting his knuckles rest against Sylvain’s stomach. He was _very_ warm—and his abs were _very hard_.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Felix felt panic when the door swung open and the maids saw the two of them very clearly wrapped up in one another. _It was just for body heat. It doesn’t mean anything._ “Breakfast, my lords.” Goddess, how many people had they caught Sylvain like this with? He didn’t want to know. “The bath should be along shortly.”

Felix didn’t even know where one secured water in this _tundra_ of a landscape. It seemed as though even a well would freeze over.

Sylvain’s fingers loosened the tie of Felix’s braid and gently began working through the lattice. “Thank you,” he said, smiling at the maid as she ducked out. It took significant self-will not to give in to being pet like a kitten, but he did enjoy the touch of Sylvain's hand in his hair. Was it obvious he liked it _that_ much? 

The room was beginning to warm now that the fire had taken to life. Felix pried himself away from Sylvain as the water was brought in to fill the bath, fighting off the wave of drowsiness that came with having his hair played with. He plucked a pastry from the pile and followed the bustling staff into the bathroom, eager to sink into the hot water before it got cold.

It was instantaneous relief when he sank into the water. He sighed, sinking into the depths of the bathtub, letting the hot water penetrate every aching and cold muscle. The tub was graciously deep, letting him submerge to his shoulders with room to spare. Perhaps that was the benefit of Sylvain being so much larger than him—his bathtub was _huge_.

Apparently, the mere thought of Sylvain was enough to summon him, for the oaf stumbled into the bathroom moments later, much to Felix’s chagrin. “ _Sylvain!”_

“What, Felix? Feeling prudish?”

“It’s called _privacy!”_

He laughed. “I won’t look, I promise.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before anyway, but Felix still wasn’t happy about it. “I’m trying to _relax_.”

Sylvain tossed him a smirk over his shoulder. “I can help, if you’d like.” He moved towards the sink and began brushing his teeth instead.

“In your dreams,” Felix muttered, scrubbing his face with hot water, as if that could burn away the thoughts that popped into his head from Sylvain’s insinuation. His _mere insinuation_. With his mouth full of toothpaste, Sylvain merely looked at him, making eye contact through the bathroom mirror. He winked at him, as if to say _Yes, in my dreams._ But maybe Felix was imagining it.

Sylvain was so impossibly flirty, it was difficult to tell when he was serious about it.

Instead of responding, he wrapped his arms around his torso and tried to ignore him, focusing on the water. The maids had dropped lavender oil into it, the smell intoxicating on top of the warmth. He could fall asleep again, if he wanted to. As if the goddess would let him rest, though. Once finished washing his face, Sylvain stepped towards the tub—then around it, until he was behind the basin. He lowered himself onto the ground, back against the edge of the tub, so that they were nearly back to back with each other. “I don’t need your company,” Felix drawled.

“Do you want me to leave?” Sylvain asked.

“I’m sure your staff would prefer if you got off your lazy ass and helped them get some firewood.” He lifted a hand over Sylvain’s head, so that water dribbled into his hair, down his forehead.

Sylvain laughed, swiping at his forehead. “That’s not a yes.”

Felix stared at the water. “No.”

It was just like last time—like all the times before it.

He still didn’t know what it was about Sylvain that had him so imperceptibly drawn to him. There had been times when he could go years without seeing his friend, but then they got close again, and every time it hurt like hell to rip Sylvain out. He was the prettiest rose, with the sharpest thorns. It was so _easy_ to get close to him, to open up, to reminisce and get _attached._

It was so easy to fall in love with him.

But something was always in the way, wasn’t it?

Glenn’s death, the war with Duscur. The Officer’s Academy and Sylvain’s incessant flirting, rotating cast of flings, all the girls he paraded around. The war with the Empire. And now? Sylvain’s father wanted to marry him off. Every time Felix began to think he might have a chance, the goddess liked to throw shit in his way.

They were quiet for some time, simply existing in the same space. Felix, sensing the water might get cold, reached for the shampoo bottle. Sylvain reached for it as well, managing to get to it before him. “May I?” he asked.

Felix searched his face for something—for what, he wasn’t sure. Mischief? It was like waiting to have the rug pulled out from under him. Cuddling in bed all night was one form of intimacy, but washing one’s hair seemed to be on another level. They stared at each other for a moment, and Felix saw no ill-intent. He gave a single nod, hoping the other could at least appreciate how hard Felix was trying to let himself be vulnerable for once. It wasn't easy opening up to people, and it was even harder to let himself lower his defenses. 

Sylvain squirted shampoo into his hand, then began the process of lathering it onto Felix’s scalp. His touch felt _divine_. The drag of his fingertips through his hair, the gentle massage. To Felix’s growing misery and embarrassment, he _moaned._ “Good?” Sylvain asked, a little smugly. His thumb worked at the base of his head, massaging where his hairline met the back of his neck.

“Y-yeah,” he managed to reply, breath shaky. Fucking hell. He let Sylvain continue, until his hair was appropriately lathered and he was convinced his nerve endings had all but become nonexistent. He felt _relaxed_. He slowly lowered himself into the water, rinsing out his hair. Sylvain’s hands dipped into the water, rinsing off the suds. A moment later, he turned his back again and settled onto the bathroom floor while Felix gave a quick scrub with the soap bar. He was going to smell like Sylvain after all this. “Sylvain?”

“Hmm?”

Felix wanted to ask him what he had meant last night, when he had said that he was a fool for him. He didn’t want their strange intimacy to end—and he didn’t want to break the spell on whatever it was that was between them. Instead, Felix asked, “Can you hand me the towel?”

The towel was presented. “I have a robe, too. I think the maids wanted to clean your clothes.”

Felix finished rinsing himself off while Sylvain went to fetch the robe. He draped the towel around his waist and followed after him. A thick, warm robe was placed around his shoulders. Sylvain had placed it in front of the fire to warm while he bathed. His heart swelled with affection, pulling the garment tighter around himself. It was _massive_ , clearly meant to fit Sylvain, but it was warm and it smelled nice.

“I received a raven, from my father,” Sylvain said, conversationally.

Felix frowned. “When?”

“This morning. The storm is clearing. He’s going to start heading back.” He must have been informed about it when he had requested breakfast for them. 

_And you didn’t think to mention that earlier?_ “How long before he gets here?” Felix had completely forgotten about the trade negotiations.

“Probably a day or two. Sorry, Fe.”

A few more days alone with Sylvain could either go horribly wrong or splendidly right. Felix, ever the pessimist, chose to believe it would go the former. Whatever the outcome, it would be better spent with Sylvain than with the Margrave, and he silently hoped it would be two days instead of one. He wasn't sure he was ready for things to change yet.

“Guess we should make the most of it then, hm?”

Sylvain gave him a look. “I’m not falling for your sparring tricks again.”

This, surprisingly, got Felix to laugh. “Let’s go find some firewood.”

Felix’s soldiers, combined with the members of Sylvain’s own and his various staff, they were able to find a few fallen trees to drag back to the castle. They enlisted the draft horses for this, making the work quick and effortless. While they were out, the sun even came out. In a day or so, the snow would be sufficiently melted for travel. The temperature increased to an almost tolerable level (for the north) before plunging again once the sun set. There was wood now, at least, even if it was wet and would take longer to burn. Felix helped stock the rooms, making sure each was well prepared for the night ahead while his soldiers and Sylvain kept dismantling and chopping wood.

They reconvened for dinner and afterwards, like the previous night, they found themselves walking the grounds. This time it was still light out, with the sun hanging on the horizon. It was a hazy evening, the skies clearing just enough to allow for color to blot the sunset; hints of yellows, pinks, and purples. Sylvain had insisted that Felix walk with their arms looped together, and Felix had not argued. His hand rested idly against Sylvain’s bicep, leaning into him for his warmth. At least _this time_ he was bundled up—wearing his favorite maroon cloak, embroidered with teal thread—and yes Felix was jealous of the cloak, even if he had his own.

“Hey,” Felix said quietly, kicking the snow with his boot. They had trekked off the shoveled paths, deeper into the Gautier estate. They were in the gardens now. Felix remembered that Sylvain’s mother had adored their gardens. It was unlike most noble gardens; there were no finely trimmed edges and expertly trimmed lawns. Gautier Gardens instead boasted unique wildflower beds; blooming vibrant alpine flowers like rock cress, bellflower, dogwood. They were hearty plants that survived children trampling through them, as they often did when they played. It was hard to imagine now, with everything covered in thick layers of snow. The gardens had a solitary fountain in the center, the disapproving gaze of Sylvain’s ancestor, Gautier, permanently surveying the gardens. Gautier watched them now, no doubt staring holes into their backs.

Sylvain paused, turning to look at him. “Yes?”

“The snow has melted a bit.” He looked down at the snow surrounding them. “We could make that snowman.”

Sylvain’s eyes lit up, but it was obvious he was trying to stifle his excitement. Did he think his enthusiasm would scare Felix away? “Sure.”

Felix, despite himself, squeezed Sylvain’s arm before unwinding himself from his side, then set into the snowbank. He was grateful for his tall boots, but he could already feel the cold seeping into his shins. Sylvain, tactless, barreled into the snow behind him. Felix bent over to pack snow into his hand, finding it easier to mold than the day before when they had their snowball fight. He then knelt properly, ass barely hovering above imminent doom (the snowbank) as he packed more snow around the ball and it was large enough to roll. He glanced up, noting that Sylvain was already ahead of him, already sprawling around on the ground like a newborn fawn. He couldn’t seem to get his footing, and every few wobbles he stopped to pack snow onto his ever-growing snowball. It would be interesting to see who could accomplish the base first. In silent need for competition, Felix began working faster, using precise movements to achieve the perfect snow sphere.

He was slightly out of breath by the time he’d achieved a large enough base for what would inevitably be a huge snowman. Sylvain rolled his towards him, until it was resting beside the snowball he had made. They stood in front of them for a moment, simply regarding their monstrosities, before Sylvain concluded, very smugly, “Mine’s bigger.”

Felix snorted, then kicked Sylvain’s snowball with the toe of his boot, sending snow scattering in all directions. The sphere, compromised, collapsed in on itself, a horrible and pathetic thing. If this was a sexual metaphor, Felix thought it would still be an accurate representation. “Now it’s not,” he said, smug in his own right.

Sylvain pouted, moving forward to put his snowball back together while Felix began shaving off the lumps on his own, ensuring it truly _was_ the perfect snowman. Once Sylvain reconstructed his snowball, he lifted it on top of Felix’s. Now they just needed a head, and some accessories.

Felix once again recalled the snowman they had made in their youth, and how it had towered over them. The same thing was about to happen. The base Felix had constructed was large enough to come up to his hip, and with Sylvain’s snowball on top of it, it was already chest-height. Sylvain wandered off to construct the final piece of their snowman, and in the meantime, he secured the two sections by packing snow around its core. Finally, the monstrosity came together, all three snowballs, and it was still taller than Felix was. It was closer to Sylvain’s height—and Felix never thought it would be so irritating to be shorter than a snowman.

The snow around them had diminished, packed into the snowman instead. It made it easier to find the final pieces for the snowman, though; rocks for the eyes and smile, branches for its arms. “Are you going to make him evil this time?” Sylvain asked, as Felix stood on his tippy-toes to make the face.

Felix considered this. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea. Can you find me a leaf?”

Sylvain gave him a strange look, but consented. He wandered off again, searching until he found a sizable leaf. Felix ripped the leaf in half down the midrib so that only half of the blade remained. Then, he fixed the leaf over the snowman’s right eye, as if resembling an eye patch. He stuck one of his pebbles into the left eye socket, then arranged the rest into a scowl.

“Is that supposed to be Dimitri?” Sylvain asked, a laugh already bubbling on his lips.

Felix smirked, proud of his masterpiece. “Too bad we don’t have an Areadbhar.”

Sylvain pursed his lips, then disappeared again. He returned with a sizable stick, at least the length of a spear, and planted it next to their snowman. The snow, still thick, kept the makeshift spear standing upright. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” Felix announced.

“Take it that’s our cue to go inside, then?” he chuckled, reaching for Felix’s hands, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world to warm them for him. Sylvain also took off his cloak and draped it around Felix’s shoulders, enveloping him in warmth. “How about some hot chocolate?”

Felix still wasn’t the largest fan of sugar, but he couldn’t help but agree. “Sounds perfect.”

That evening, Felix once again found himself in Sylvain’s chambers, but this time alone. He balanced a wine glass in one hand while one of Sylvain’s Reason books sat in his lap. He had acquired a minor skill in Reason, but had never pursued it during their academy days. He almost regretted it. He flipped through the pages, not intending on picking up a new spell skill, but instead perusing what _Sylvain_ had found interesting. His notes marred the margins, his scrawling handwriting and shorthand abbreviations nearly incomprehensible. He felt fond looking at his notes, though. It was like looking into how his mind worked—and for all the shit he gave him about being an idiot, Sylvain was painfully smart.

At that moment, Sylvain was off somewhere in the depths of the cold castle, attending to whatever it was his father left him in charge of. He admired Sylvain’s sense of duty. They had both grown up quite a bit, hadn’t they?

Felix was nearly to the end of the book when the chamber doors swung open. He did not turn to look at Sylvain, but noted the way the man paused at the door. “You’re still here,” Sylvain said in what was certainly disbelief.

“Where else would I be?” Felix asked.

“Another room. We have the firewood…”

Felix shrugged. “Do you want me to leave?”

The door clicked shut behind Sylvain. “Ah, that’s not what I said.” There was a rustle of fabric as Sylvain took off his overcoat and hung it. Felix could hear the clatter of his belts as he removed his weapons. “No, you know you’re welcome to stay here.”

Sylvain’s footsteps were quiet after he took his boots off. He maneuvered around the sofa, joining Felix—who was constantly taking up the whole length of it, legs stretched out across the cushions. This did not stop Sylvain, who scooped up his legs in a fell swoop and sat down, replacing Felix’s legs so that they instead rested over his thighs. “What are you reading?”

“Your diary,” he replied, smirking a little.

“I don’t have a diary.”

“I think this is the closest one might get.” He flipped to the cover of the book so Sylvain could see. “Not only did you steal this book from Garreg Mach, but you utterly defaced it.”

“That’s _mine_!” Sylvain argued with a laugh.

Felix turned to the back of the book, where there was a noticeably empty slot for a library card. “Is it?”

“Well, I took it from Mercedes.”

He sighed, the need to argue dying on his lips. He didn’t mind stealing from the church, but _Mercedes_ would surely be upset to find out about her stolen library book. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” Felix said, closing the book and setting it aside. He finished his wine, also setting the glass on the table next to the book.

“About Reason?” Sylvain asked, resting his hands on Felix’s shin. “Aw, do you want me to tutor you?”

“ _No._ If I wanted to learn more spells, I’d go to Annette. Just because you can lob fireballs doesn’t make you a mage.”

“Maybe, but you can’t deny that knowing how to ‘lob fireballs’ is useful.” As if upon request, Sylvain summoned a flame that hovered over his palm, brilliant and warm.

Felix was not impressed by party tricks, though. “Child's play.”

“So hard to impress.” The flame disappeared as quickly as it came, and his hand returned to Felix’s leg. “What’s on your mind, then?”

_You_ , he mused silently. He couldn’t help but admire Sylvain’s profile—the curve of his jaw as he stared at the fire, then the curve of his smile when he turned to look at Felix. He lifted his arm so that it draped across the back of the sofa, fingers affectionately sliding through the messy locks at the base of Sylvain’s neck. He felt him tense for a moment, neither of them accustomed to Felix initiating physical contact, before relaxing, leaning his head back into the touch. “Come home with me,” Felix said, softly, twirling a lock of hair around his index finger before resuming the gentle caresses.

The hand tensed on his shin, just for a moment. Felix could feel the shock rolling off of him. He recovered, though, as smooth as ever; whatever doubts Sylvain had carefully masked. “Can’t stand the thought of living without me?” Sylvain purred, giving him a small smile. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.” He wrapped an arm under Felix’s legs, gave him a tug so that he was nearly sitting in Sylvain’s lap. One of his hands rested on Felix’s knee, splayed so that his fingers touched the inside of his thigh.

Perhaps. Two months apart and suddenly Felix was cuddling him at night when neither of them were particularly affluent cuddlers. Two months apart and Felix was playing with his hair. Two months apart and Felix was practically jumping him. Were Felix to argue, he might have said that absence makes the heart grow colder. It was easy for isolation to set in, to gnaw away at one’s self esteem and to abandon hope of healthy relationships. “Well I’m not going to beg,” Felix said flatly, dropping his hand away from Sylvain’s hair. “If you’d like to suffer alone in this frozen hellscape, I won’t stop you.”

Sylvain, mistaking it for sincerity, or perhaps just missing his touch, pouted. “As if I could think of anything better than being by your side,” Sylvain mused, leaning towards him. "But the cold never bothered me anyway."

Unable to resist the pout, he reached for Sylvain again. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was the softness, or perhaps it was how easy everything seemed to feel when Sylvain was near. Even though it had been just a few days, he felt more like himself than he had in many moons. With an unsettling realization, Felix realized that Sylvain was right: he couldn’t stand the thought of being without him. Sylvain was like a breath of air when he’d been drowning, like a kiss of life when he’d been suffocating.

Then came the realization that his feelings for Sylvain were deeper than he thought. “So you will?” he pressed, needing that assurance.

The redhead turned slightly, nuzzling the soft inside of Felix’s wrist, placing a kiss there. “Promise,” he said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Felix wasn’t stupid enough to believe it, although to Sylvain’s credit, it was not because he doubted his friend. Sylvain would rather rip his own heart out than lie to him (and frankly, Felix felt the same way), but if their fates were in their own hands… things might have been much different. The Margrave, at present, was trying to find his son a suitor to carry on their family legacy, and it was the Margrave that would deny Felix and Sylvain their… Their what? Companionship? That made it sound like…

“Sylvain?”

His eyes flicked up to Felix’s own, his lips still pressed against his wrist. “Hm?” he asked.

He had to tell him.

He had no idea how to tell him.

“Should we go to bed?”

Sylvain smiled at him. “Sure," he replied tenderly, this time kissing his palm. Felix swallowed thickly and nodded again, not quite trusting himself with words. Sylvain plucked the book from his lap and set it aside, using the grip he’d already established on Felix to pick him up and carry him towards the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with that tender affection! 
> 
> twitter: [@mitochondribae](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae)  
> tumblr: [@officialvampyr](https://officialvampyr.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more well-deserved fluff, including: staying in bed, light angst, soft sleepy Felix and little spoon Sylvain

The snow was thawing. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the drapes, highlighting the contours of Sylvain’s face as he slumbered, head resting on Felix’s chest, right over his heart. He could hear birds chirping outside, signifying the weather had warmed enough to bring them out of hiding. He bet if he opened the windows, he could smell spring on the easterly winds; it signified change and new life, or something cliché like that. Felix knew that change was coming, but he wasn’t sure he was prepared for it yet.

This morning felt different.

There was a looming finality hanging in the air, thick like molasses. Even if Sylvain had promised him to come home with him, it wouldn’t quite be the same, would it? They had no reason to share a bed like this, to sleep coiled around one another like this. They were hanging on the precipice of something else, and Felix couldn’t see how vast the abyss was to know if it was safe to jump. He adjusted his hand, which was previously resting over Sylvain’s hip, to instead curl into his hair, his elbow bending to accommodate for the change. His fingers lightly threaded through his sleep-tousled locks. Sylvain responded by snuggling closer to him, shifting his leg so that it wrapped around Felix’s thigh, his hand curling over his sternum. Unable to help himself, Felix rumbled softly in approval, rewarding Sylvain’s affection by playing with his hair a bit more firmly. The other continued to stir, popping an eye open. Were Felix shirtless in the way Sylvain was, he might have felt the flutter of an eyelash against his breast, but the fabric between them felt like an ocean of distance.

It had been a long time since Felix had felt the desire to stay in bed all day. There was always something to do that got him out of bed and dressed before most people even bothered to wake up, and he prided himself on that. This was different, though. This was a reluctance to tackle the day; to delay it as long as possible so long as it meant they stayed like _this_.

During the war, Felix knew better than to delay the inevitable. It was easier to accept it than try to ignore it; often because he didn’t have a choice, but also because the pain of dragging it out was far worse than the pain of the present. It was fear of the inevitable. Now, however, it felt like he had a reason to push it off—a reason to make this last.

“Hey.” Sylvain’s voice cracked his thoughts like ice, splintering his perspective and bringing him back to the surface. There was concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Felix tensed for a moment before forcing himself to relax. It was easy to forget that Sylvain knew him as well as he knew Sylvain, and the tone of his voice startled him. He wasn’t used to someone sparing him genuine worry. With his spare hand, he brought it to his chest, seeking out Sylvain’s. He was content to just rest his hand over the other’s, a reassurance, but Sylvain had other ideas. “Just thinking,” he mused.

Weaving their fingers together, Sylvain shifted as if to sit himself up, but Felix’s grip tightened in his hair, keeping him in place. The other merely chuckled softly, relenting to his grip, settling back against Felix. “You’re quite a loud thinker,” he said with a yawn. “I could hear your heart.” His index finger tapped against the back of his hand, following along with the metronome of Felix’s heart. He smiled. “Don’t suppose you were thinking of _me_?”

Felix barked a laugh. Oh, if only Sylvain knew that it _was_ about him—just not in the way he’d hoped. He would have _much rather_ dealt with the sin of being horny in the morning than whatever besotted foolish thoughts he’d been conjuring. Once again, the crime of tender affection proved much more damning than the crime of lust. Lust was easy to hide and laugh off, but love? Oh, love was worse. “What if I was?” Felix replied, feeling coy. He let his finger dip down his neck, following the curve of his spine. Sylvain shivered.

“Then of course you’d have to tell me.”

“And why would I have to do that?” Felix asked, amused. There was no bite to him this early in the morning.

“It’s only fair.”

“Fair for whom?”

“Would you like me to tell you what I was thinking of you?”

Well, yes. But also no. “I don’t care to know the depraved machinations of your mind, Sylvain.”

He laughed. “Nothing depraved.” The way he paused at the end of his sentence made it easy for Felix to fill the end of his sentence with ‘ _this time’_. The leg wrapped around him tightened, Sylvain using the grip to slot himself more firmly against Felix’s side and, as a result, Felix could feel… _everything_.

The hard press of his abs.

His hips.

His—

Felix felt his breath catch in his chest, and he could practically hear Sylvain smirking in response. All he had to do was flex his thigh, perhaps readjust, and Sylvain could—

Well _now_ his thoughts were turning much less unholy. The lapse in his judgment led him to hastily say, “I was thinking it would be nice to stay in bed with you for the rest of the day.”

He regretted it.

Sylvain, for a moment, could not seem to process what Felix had said. He lifted his head, chin resting on Felix’s chest, searching his face for any sign of lie or jest. He wasn’t sure what honesty looked like, but he was pretty sure the blush on his cheeks was sufficient enough to prove he was not joking. He smiled, soft and reassuring. “Yeah? I was thinking the same thing.”

No taunts. No grandiose flirtations.

It was what Felix needed to hear.

He settled back against the duke’s chest as if nothing had happened. Felix resumed playing with his hair, quiet and contemplative.

It was not a secret that Sylvain would do anything for him, if he asked. Felix, throughout the course of his life, had been careful not to take advantage of that. He would shield him if the sky were to fall, even if Felix demanded he not. He would be there for him when the earth stopped turning, hold his hand before the end of it all. It was something more than the promise they had made to each other, years ago as children. All Felix had to do was ask and Sylvain would say yes. Felix inhaled deeply. “But—”

“—my father won’t be home until this evening, at the earliest, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sylvain interjected softly.

It was, actually, which seemed silly; something so trivial as chaste affection being something they had to hide. Neither of them had fond sentiments for the Margrave, though, and Felix didn’t want to make things… _worse_. One might think that of all the situations one could walk in on Sylvain doing, cuddling his childhood friend was far from the most scandalous. _And yet_ …

“Let’s go back to sleep, hm?” Sylvain asked.

Felix doubted he would actually fall back asleep—but he had been wrong before.

And would be wrong then.

He woke, a couple hours later, with his face pressed into Sylvain’s hair. Somehow, they had twisted around so that Felix was spooning him, curled against his back, his arm around his waist. It felt unnatural—if not comfortable. Sylvain made an ideal bed companion, warm and firm and oversized. As nice as it was to be engulfed by him, it was equally nice to hold him. Sylvain Jose Gautier made an _excellent_ little spoon. In addition to this revelation came the reconciliation with his own sleepy, horny thoughts, and the fact that Sylvain’s ass was pressed into his crotch. He gave the softest of sighs, buried into Sylvain’s shoulder, half-frustrated with himself and half-smitten with the way they _fit_ like puzzle pieces.

Sylvain slumbered quietly, his breaths low and deep. Felix, reluctantly, slipped away from him, out from under the covers, compelled to wash up and request breakfast. He was still asleep when Felix eventually returned, hair loose and down his shoulders. He’d managed to change into clean clothes—even if said clean clothes consisted of fresh undergarments and one of Sylvain’s oversized shirts. He had requested breakfast be brought to their rooms again, informed the staff that Sylvain was not feeling well, and that they would be spending the majority of the day in ‘their room’.

He snuggled in behind him again, arm wrapping around his waist to pull Sylvain back into him. _That_ was enough to wake him, apparently, and he startled with a soft snort.

It was the cutest thing Felix had ever heard.

“Fe?” he asked, bleary and confused.

“I’m here, Syl,” he murmured into his shoulder. Sylvain relaxed again, melting into the embrace like he was made of butter. The spell of sleep was broken, though, and he remained very much awake, inching more towards Felix, reaching for his hand to hold again.

He drew Felix’s hand to his lips and kissed the back.

His lips were, surprisingly, soft and warm. Having experienced a brutal Faerghus winter before, Felix knew the winds were unforgiving, often leading to chapped and crusty lips, and part of him _was_ surprised that Sylvain took care of himself. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he remembered when their professor had returned a tube of lipstick to Sylvain. At the time, Felix had presumed it to be for a paramour, but now… Now his overactive imagination was naturally imagining Sylvain using it on himself, how handsome a burnt red would be, matching the color of his hair.

Sylvain stretched, all taut, languid muscle caressing every inch of Felix’s body. He felt suddenly very hot as the other rolled onto his back, looking up at him with the softest expression. “Good morning,” he purred.

“Again,” Felix replied, quietly, not trusting himself with more words than that. There was too much unfettered _emotion_ in his chest. He was not suited for mornings like this. “How did you sleep?” Idly, he shifted onto his elbow, so he could swipe stray pieces of hair from Sylvain’s forehead.

He continued to simply smile up at him for a moment, and Felix wondered if he was also struggling with the same amount of emotion welling in him. “You know, it’s weird,” he began, taking particular interest in Felix’s hand again, dragging his fingers against his palm, then up the length of his digits, before being content to hold it. “I don’t think I’ve slept this good in years.”

Felix had thought the same thing, but it still surprised him to hear it reciprocated. It must have shown on his face, because Sylvain chuckled at him. Much like Sylvain’s lack of eye contact, Felix opted to look at his messy hair when he replied with, “Safe. Yeah?” It was how he felt, at least. He didn’t feel like he had to wake up every hour, or force himself to sleep lightly, or keep a knife under his pillow and his sword by his bed. He felt untouchable.

Sylvain’s smile was warm enough to drown out the sun. “Yeah.” He squeezed Felix’s hand. “I haven’t had any nightmares. I slept through the night. I feel… rested.”

He nodded in understanding. He didn’t dare to say _guess we should make this a habit_ , _if only for our own well-being_ , but he thought it. Platonic bedfellows were a thing, right? Except Felix didn’t necessarily _want_ it to be platonic. Instead, he asked, “What do you dream of?” while his fingers continued to twirl through Sylvain’s hair.

There was a chip in that smile, something cracking beneath the surface. Felix knew he was treading on thin ice, but he was determined anyway. Sylvain continued to look at him softly, but there was something buried under it—the dark parts of him he tried to keep hidden. It had always been Sylvain’s nature to lock away his hurt and pretend as if it wasn’t there. Felix couldn’t blame him, as he often resorted to the same coping mechanisms. _Fake it ‘til you make it_ was something that had always worked for the both of them, but Felix, perhaps selfishly, liked to believe he knew the real Sylvain. They were each other’s closest friends. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” he replied, easy and sweet, trying to brush it off. “Just… y’know.”

“I do not know,” Felix insisted with a slight frown.

“Death,” he said, and his voice was softer now, but hollow. “I dream of my friends dying, or myself dying. I dream of the friends we killed along the way, and those we lost. I dream of…” he swallowed thickly, “…demonic beasts. I see Miklan on the battlefield. It’s so easy to imagine him on the opposite side of the war, joining with Edelgard. I think in the worst dreams, I end up being the only survivor.”

Felix was quiet for a moment. Sylvain had such a strong self-sacrificing attitude, and Felix had reprimanded him for it many times during the war. He was reckless and fool-hardy. He charged into battle as a distraction, as a last resort, with no regard for his own life. Everything he did, he did for those he loved—and to lose everyone anyway would surely break him.

“It’s unfair, what happened to us. We should have been enjoying our lives at the academy, and then after graduation. We should have been drinking and getting married and…” Sylvain trailed off, looking distraught. “It doesn’t feel like we got to _live,_ Fe.”

He knew that feeling quite well, but it had lived in Felix much longer than just the five year span of the war. His whole life felt like he was missing out on something, because he was trying so hard to fill the shoes of someone who had gone. He always had to exist for someone else—for Glenn, for Dimitri—and never for himself. They would never be able to get the years back that they lost, nor was there a way to supplement them. Everything would be tainted by the war. Even now, in their mid-twenties, they could not escape the trauma.

“We didn’t,” Felix murmured, lowering his head slightly to press a kiss to Sylvain’s temple. His twenty first birthday had been spent hunched over a war table, looking over battle plans. On his father’s twenty first birthday, he’d gone drinking with all his friends, and with the king himself. By twenty one, his parents had courted and married. Felix was never going to get those experiences back. He hadn’t been there for Sylvain’s, either, but he doubted it was a merry affair. “But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

Sylvain gave a little laugh. “And for what? You’re isolated in your dukedom and don’t respond to anyone’s letters. I’m trapped here, at the edge of the kingdom, still under the same bullshit principles and ideals our kingdom has always had. We fought a whole war to change the system, and yet I’m still being strapped with an arranged marriage, while all our friends are living their lives and falling in love—”

“—so you’re just going to sit by and accept it?” Felix asked. It sounded harsher than he intended it to. “You can do whatever you want, Sylvain, no one is stopping you.”

His eyes widened for a moment, surprised at Felix’s tone, and he again felt a pang of regret at his outburst. “I…” He looked down. “I don’t know what I want.”

Felix couldn’t blame him for that. He knew he didn’t want to inherit his father’s estate, but for now, it seemed the best option, and even though he still did not have the best relationship with Dimitri, he felt needed in the capitol, too. Would it be hypocritical of him to say he didn’t have a plan? Perhaps, but goddess be damned if Felix was going to let someone tell him how to live his life. He was overwhelmed with choice, but Sylvain was stifled by the lack of. “If you could be anywhere, right now, where would you be?” he prompted.

Sylvain considered it for a moment. “Home,” he said, once the long moment had passed.

“You _are_ home,” Felix reminded gently.

Another laugh. “This has never felt like home to me,” he said, gesturing to his room.

Felix couldn’t say he blamed him. Sylvain’s childhood had been a whirlwind of abuse. “What’s the next closest thing, then?”

Again, Sylvain was quiet. Felix could feel the impact weighing on them both, felt like he was holding his breath and waiting for something. For what, he wasn’t sure, but when Sylvain said, “Here, in your arms,” he felt that weight come crushing down on him like a boulder. He exhaled in a rushed breath. The silence hung between them.

He was struck by how cliché it was. That was a flattering line he could have pulled on anyone, but Felix knew it was something too personal, too serious. This wasn’t just another of Sylvain’s lines. He was being honest, and Felix wasn’t sure how to handle it. In the end, all he could manage was a soft exhalation of Sylvain’s name.

To which the other laughed, as if to play off the sincerity, as if to smother his own hope and soften the rejection. It caused Felix’s heart to ache. He had to backpedal, fast.

“Yesterday,” Felix began, when he found words again, “you asked if I wanted you to come with me because I couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.” He forced himself to look back at Sylvain, despite feeling his cheeks heat up with a blush. “The answer was yes. I miss you… every fucking day. I thought it might be easier to—” Goddess, he felt emotion welling in his chest. It burned like frostbite. “—distance myself. I thought I could do this on my own, but being back here, with you, has reminded me of what I…” Lost wasn’t the right word. He had never had something to lose to begin with, since Sylvain wasn’t his. “What I could have had.”

“What could you have had?” Sylvain asked, almost hesitantly, as if he were scared of the answer.

“You.” It seemed silly to say. “All I’ve wanted is you.”

Realizing he was in love with Sylvain was like realizing the sky is blue; something that’s always in sight, something that seems obvious, but something that can’t be truly appreciated until one takes a look.

Sylvain sat up a little, all bright-eyed and alert. “ _Felix_ ,” he purred, suddenly smug, “is that a confession?” He untwined their fingers in favor of placing his hand flat against Felix’s chest, pushing him flat into the bed. Sylvain’s leg, still thrown over one of this, shifted with the change in position as he rolled half on top of him, knee devastatingly close to his groin. “And how would you have me?”

Goddess, that look on his face could have Felix writing wedding vows and they hadn’t even kissed yet. There was a blissful agony in the tension between them. He envied the way Sylvain could stifle his insecurities and flip the flirty switch back on (even if he knew it was just a coping mechanism). It made him seem suave, and probably about ten times sexier than he really was. He rested his hand on Sylvain’s hip, steadying him. He would have Sylvain in every way, if he could, until the end of days. His other hand cradled the side of his face, guiding him down into a chaste kiss.

As he’d admired earlier, Sylvain’s lips were soft and warm, and it took no time at all before Felix was clutching at him, seeking more. His hands began to wander; the one at his hip greedily going for his ass, the one at his face sliding to hold onto his bicep. This got Sylvain to moan into his mouth, which Felix drank up—he’d always known (hoped) Sylvain was noisy in bed, but this was truly delicious. “ _Felix_ ,” he sighed, and Felix didn’t know he could like the sound of his own name so damn much.

A knock sounded at the door, causing Felix to still. Sylvain seemed perfectly happy to continue, taking the lapse in reciprocation as a hint to kiss his jaw, then down his neck. It felt divine—but as much as he wanted to lay back and let Sylvain have his way with him, the door continued to be knocked on, and eventually, Felix shoved him off. Sylvain looked like a kicked dog.

Still straddling Felix, practically laying on top of him, he gave permission to whomever to enter. Despite knowing it was probably their breakfast, he felt a rush of embarrassment at being found in such a state; tousled and beneath Sylvain. “Breakfast?” he asked, sounding confused.

The staff—Helena, Felix thought—was trying desperately not to look at them, cheeks red. He felt bad for her. “Lunch, my lord.”

Felix tried to look around the mass above him for a clock. Lunch? How late _had_ they slept? He hadn’t bothered to ask or look earlier. “What time is it?” Felix asked.

Sylvain twisted to look. “Around one.”

Holy fuck.

He moved to push Sylvain off of him, but he was unrelenting. “You said you wanted to stay in bed with me _all day_ ,” Sylvain reminded smugly, and Felix was loath to have it repeated in front of another human being. He wished he could simply melt into the mattress, disintegrate until there was nothing left and he could not suffer the judgment. “Thanks for the food, Helena.”

She dipped her head respectfully. “I hope you feel better soon.” She quickly left.

Sylvain gave him a funny look. “Am I ill?” he asked, raising a brow.

Felix was still trying to make himself invisible, arm thrown over his eyes dramatically. “I tried to come up with something clever to explain why you needed to be in bed.”

“I never get sick,” he said, matter-of-factly. It was something he thought he remembered—at least, he couldn’t ever remember Sylvain being sick—but apparently it had slipped his mind. “It would have been easier to believe we were too busy fu—”

Felix silenced him with a kiss.

It was easy to kiss him—like breathing. It felt good to kiss him, too. He’d had his fair share of kisses in the past, but none of them could hold a flame to this. Felix truly couldn’t tell if Sylvain was just a mind-numbingly good kisser, or if it was something closer to destiny. It was probably the former, but leave it to Sylvain to have Felix searching for a higher power to explain his attraction to him. He could also, he supposed, blame it on the fact he hadn’t touched anyone like this in months, nor _been_ touched like this in months, and he was _very_ responsive.

Seemingly aware of how sensitive Felix was, the smug aura radiating off of Sylvain was bordering on too much. Felix could feel his smirk as he kissed along his jaw, resuming his path down his neck. This man was going to be his undoing, wasn’t he? Felix arched into him involuntarily when Sylvain nipped at his jugular, which coaxed a little laugh out of him. He kind of hated how sappy the laugh was—there was nothing there but fond affection as he explored his throat.

Felix suddenly hiked his leg to Sylvain’s hip—not to grind on him, which he was rather inclined to do—to roll them over, flipping them so that Sylvain was pressed into the pillows instead. Molten copper stared back up at him, hazy and affectionate. Sylvain’s hands settled onto his hips easily, his grip steady. Felix could feel his hand shaking as he steadied himself, bracing on Sylvain’s chest. It wasn’t nerves, but excitement, every nerve in his body coming alive with anticipation and longing, all the years of pent up tension between them culminating with every kiss and touch. It was amplified by the look he was being given; just like when he had pinned him into the snow, Sylvain very thoroughly seemed to be enjoying the view. Whether it was the fact Felix was wearing one of his shirts (which fit him like a dress) or the fact he wore little anything else (this had been the first morning since arriving that Felix had felt warm enough not to need his leggings), Sylvain couldn’t take his eyes off of him. “You like being on top, don’t you, Fe?” Sylvain purred.

This time, he laughed, leaning forward to cup his cheek, thumb brushing his lower lip. “You’d like me on top, wouldn’t you, Syl?” he asked in response, mustering up whatever forbidden flirting knowledge he’d acquired from their friendship over the years.

_That_ got him a blush, Sylvain’s eyes wide with surprise. He turned his head slightly into Felix’s hand, tongue darting out to tease his thumb before taking the digit into his mouth. He threw a wink up at him and Felix swore under his breath. _Fucker_. He moved his hand, sitting back on Sylvain’s hips. The other took the opportunity to sit up instead, arms draping around his shoulders now, leaning in to press their foreheads together. It was… tender. Despite the fervor with which they’d been kissing each other moments ago, this was a moment of respite, and Felix let his eyes close, simply enjoying the moment. He didn’t want to rush it, despite how badly he found himself wanting. For this, it was enough to just be seen and held, his feelings acknowledged and reciprocated.

Felix could feel numerous thoughts racing through his head—everything he wanted to tell Sylvain but couldn’t find the words for. Things that were too soft, too affectionate, too embarrassing for him to repeat. Sylvain kissed his lips again, chaste and tender, and Felix knew he had to say _something_. “I wish I could tell you how long I’ve wanted to be with you.” Sylvain hummed, following the path along his jaw, this time without any urgency or heat. His hand found its way into Felix’s hair, cradling the back of his head. “In some way or another. I accepted the fact you were always going to be in my life a long time ago, and I didn’t want to… ruin that… by pushing for more. You’re all I have.” _And what would I do without you?_ “You’re my best friend and you’ve always been there for me. Now it’s my turn to be that for you, if you’ll have me.” He hadn’t been the best of friends to Sylvain and he had a stack of letters back home that he never responded to that proved it, but he was determined to be better.

Speech finished, Sylvain sat back slightly, if only to take Felix’s face between his hands. His grip was gentle, and Felix reluctantly made eye contact. Sylvain’s eyes were steamy and he immediately wondered if he’d said something wrong. “I’ll always have you, Fe,” he replied. “I’ll choose you, every time.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

Sylvain was all too happy to oblige him.

Insistent that they keep to Felix’s request to remain in bed all day—despite the fact he _did_ inevitably get antsy and desire to run around—they spent the afternoon lazing together. Whenever Felix would get squirrely, Sylvain would rope him back in with more of those undeniable kisses, purring quiet little promises like, “ _If you want something more physically enduring, we can always do that, too,_ ” into his ear until he was shivering. And he _did_ want that, but he was also keen to wait.

After all, the Margrave was set to return.

And return he did.

They received the message after the sun had set. One of Sylvain's staff members informed them of it, and Felix could already feel the tension in the house. Everything suddenly felt more rigid; the staff bowed a little lower, kept their eyes averted. Something shifted in Sylvain, too, as he dragged himself out of bed to shower and dress. Suddenly, the sweet nothings he'd been whispering all day soured on his tongue, and an unsettling silence passed between them. Felix wore his usual attire, his turtleneck and white coat, but Sylvain dressed more formally. His shoulders became rigid, and that genuine little smile he had become so accustomed to seeing vanished under a carefully placed mask. For the first time in days, Sylvain did not extend his arm for Felix to take as they made to exit his chambers, nor did he place a hand on his back or twine their fingers together. He wasn't sure how to handle the sudden lack of contact after having grown accustomed also to the tender touches. While Felix was fully aware this wasn't his fault, it did cause something in his gut to boil.

"Let's go see dear old dad," Sylvain said, flashing him another of those smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo everyone loves confessions. LOVE when Felix finally admits to his own feelings. Next chapter we get a look at daddy Gautier coming home. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) | [tumblr](https://officialvampyr.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain deal with Daddy Margrave's return.

Despite spending days in the castle, Felix had not been in the dining hall.

They’d always taken dinner somewhere quieter, more secluded; he supposed both of them preferred it that way. There was no need to use the large dining table and the overbearing room when it was just the two of them. To be frank, there was no need to use the dining hall when it was just _three_ of them, either, but the Margrave, inevitably, liked to show off. From what Felix could remember of it, the dining hall was a grand thing, with rich mahogany floors and maroon painted walls. A series of mounts and stuffed creatures lined the walls—trophy killings collected over the years, displayed as status symbols. In the summer, when the temperatures warmed, the row of windows behind the lord’s dining table opened to a balcony that carried in crisp summer winds. It was a large space, fit for parties, but Felix doubted Castle Gautier saw many of those, these days. Gautier had suffered great losses during the war, having fought against two invaders from the north and from the south. Festivities were generally kept to major holidays now, and had been since Sylvain’s mother passed away.

Sometimes it was hard being back in this castle, especially when they roamed the halls and visited familiar gathering rooms. Felix felt like he was surrounded by the ghosts of his childhood—quite literally, sometimes. He’d played with Glenn here, chased him around the balconies and then through the courtyards when they caused too much of a nuisance to be allowed indoors. He couldn't help but miss the way things were back then, simpler and easier, when they were whole. Despite the pain, though, he found himself wishing he’d dedicated more time to exploring the castle. He wanted to see the armory again, or wander through the library, but it was also possible that this was just remnants of his thoughts from earlier: the fact he didn’t want his stay to end.

Thinking about the castle distracted him from thinking too hard about Sylvain.

Sylvain, who was still too handsome to look at, yet Felix could not help but steal glances at him anyway. Each glance caused his heart to seize, and if this were a different dinner, a different estate, he might have very eagerly tried to pull him into a dark alcove to have a moment alone. He’d styled his hair, somehow, and that made Felix want to card his fingers through it to return it to its natural state. His clothes were crisp and pressed, which he again craved to destroy, tugging at ties and buttons and anything confining him to his fabric prison. This was a gilded version of Sylvain; fake gold painted over him to hide the raw material underneath. This was not his Sylvain, but he has attractive nonetheless. He looked lordly this way, almost regal. 

Felix supposed that, unfortunately, he would find any version of Sylvain attractive, and chose not to dwell too deeply on that. “Will you wear my colors?” Felix asked suddenly, breaking the silence between them. It was clear they were dragging out their walk to the dining hall; both of them were usually brisk walkers, Sylvain because of his long legs and Felix because he usually had somewhere more important to be (and hated crowds and people enough to maneuver around them), but their pace was slow to the point of leisurely.

Sylvain, who up until that moment had chosen to be quiet, hummed curiously. “When?”

“When you come home with me,” Felix said, emphasizing the _when_ , because he knew there was nothing to deter him from making that their reality. “When we present at important events and festivals. Will you wear Fraldarius colors?”

There was a sideways smile, genuine and warm. “People might get ideas,” he mused playfully.

Felix crossed his arms, smirking slightly. “Good. Let them.” As if he’d want anything other than the ability to show Sylvain off. He also didn’t give a shit what people thought and the idea of being scrutinized by the public wasn’t something that worried him. He had thrown away all desire to look like the ideal nobleman a long time ago. Plus, there was something undeniably attractive about the idea of Sylvain hanging on his arm at a function. Sylvain's clothes would have to be altered with lightweight cottons and linens, since he was so naturally warm, or his clothes would simply have to be low cut and revealing, which was... not a horrible image, either. Felix found himself thinking of how Sylvain had spent much of their past week with unbuttoned shirts exposing his chest. He knew it was selfish to think those thoughts, though. Was this how Sylvain usually felt? Trapped by a singular horny brain cell?

He rolled his shoulders, centering himself. He could practically feel the tension rolling off of Sylvain, and while he couldn't hear the stream of thoughts running through his head, his silence during their walk proved they were tumultuous and rampant. Felix wished he could comfort him now—to hold his arm as they walked—but he kept to himself.

“Yes, I’ll wear your colors,” he replied affectionately. The deep blues of Fraldarius would suit him well. As much as he hated parties, he might have a need for them, now that he had someone to spend them with. A moment later he added, “ _If_ you’ll dance with me.”

He smiled. “I think we can make that happen.” Felix was against dancing on principle; it was a silly ritual for courtship and showing off, with too much fancy footwork involved. He was _good_ at it, sure, because he had always been light on his feet and agile. It was what made him a good swordsman. He was not, however, adverse to dancing with Sylvain. 

They reached the door to the dining hall, and before Sylvain could open the door for him, Felix grabbed his hand, holding him back. The ginger gave him an inquisitive look, only for a moment, before he was pulled in for a quick kiss; Felix’s hand fisting in the front of his shirt, bumping teeth and noses. He released him a moment after, and Sylvain smoothed his hand over the front of his shirt. When Felix gave him a curt nod, Sylvain opened the door for him.

The dining hall was as he remembered it, for the most part. The main difference was that it was not lined with banquet tables that could seat a hundred men. Instead, it had the main table at the head of the room, elevated above the rest. Even by itself, it looked silly. Was the Margrave really expecting just the two of them, he and Sylvain, to share it together? Felix suddenly wished he’d asked Sylvain how often they actually ate their dinners together, since it was obvious they didn’t particularly care for one another. No wonder Sylvain said he felt so isolated. The main table, however, was not set, and the Margrave was not present. There was a table set off to the side by the fireplace; ordinary in length, with three spots set.

Felix tried not to bristle over the fact the Margrave was late. While he suspected his opinion of Felix hadn’t changed, and that he still saw him as a whiny brat, he had hoped that his inheritance of his father’s title would have garnered more respect. In addition to this, the fact Felix harbored a major crest. He flashed Sylvain a look over his shoulder, a silent conversation passing between them. Sylvain tried to give his best reassuring smile, pulling Felix’s chair out for him as he seated himself opposite of the Margrave’s place. As soon as Sylvain settled in, one of the dinner staff arrived to pour them wine and inform them that the Margrave would be along shortly.

For Sylvain’s sake, though, he tried not to cop too much of an attitude. “What’s your favorite place for a first date?” Felix asked him, conversationally.

Another little smile cracked through his façade. “Asking for a friend?”

“Something like that,” he smirked, resting his chin in his palm. They could be on a date right now, were it not for all of… this.

“Dinner is always an excellent idea. Everyone loves to eat.”

Felix recalled every time Sylvain would drag him to the dining hall at the academy, lulling him with sweet words and promises. _Sparring then dinner?_ Now that was Felix’s ideal date, but he had an idea that Sylvain already knew that. “Sounds cliché," he scoffed. "Bouquet of roses, too? Expensive bottle of wine?" He rolled his eyes. Love was so... predictable.

Sylvain mirrored his pose, elbow on the arm of his chair, chin resting in his palm. His eyes glimmered with amusement. “What’s your ideal date, then? Don’t say the training grounds.”

It was a smooth way to distract from the fact he hadn't, actually, told Felix what his ideal date was. Felix opened and closed his mouth before glaring at him, reaching for his wine glass. 

As calm as ever, Sylvain continued with, “I know you find it unreasonably sexy to be roughed up and pinned down, but swords don’t always have to be involved, I promise,” and Felix choked on his wine, cheeks flushed.

Alright, so _maybe_ Felix liked a power struggle, but Sylvain certainly didn’t have to just _say it like that_. “That’s—um—not a first date—” He stared intently into his wine.

Sylvain looked at him fondly, his gaze so full of affection that Felix felt crushed under its weight. “You know we don’t need—”

He knew the rest of that sentence was going to be _a first date_ , but Felix shook his head. “Sylvain,” he said gruffly, frankly offended by the idea. “I am going to court you like you deserve. I’m going to take you on a first date and have you swooning in my arms.” He huffed, finally looking back at the other—surprised to find him looking utterly floored by what Felix had said. He had that flush to his cheeks again that made him feel smug.

“Court me, huh? You gonna send a letter of intent to my father? You gonna announce it in court?” Sylvain, for some reason, also sounded smug, and Felix felt the urge to climb into his lap and kiss him. It took a significant amount of willpower to stay in his chair, although his grip on the chair’s arm tightened, knuckles going white. “Sounds a bit soon for all that, don’t you think?” Sylvain raised his wine to his mouth, taking a slow sip. Felix yearned to lick the taste of wine off his lips.

In his mind, it was not soon for all that. Sylvain thought they didn’t need a first date because they had been friends for so long, that they had been teetering on the edge of a relationship for _so fucking long_. They were comfortable enough with one another to not need the awkwardness of a first date, but Felix wanted something special anyway. He _wanted_ to sit with Sylvain by candlelight and hold his hand under the dinner table. In a similar vein, it was because they were so comfortable with one another that Felix wasn’t worried about public courtship; after all, there was no future he saw for himself that did not include Sylvain fucking Gautier anyway. “I thought you liked grandiose expressions of love.”

Sylvain laughed. “I just want to make sure you know the gravity of what you’re implying, sweetheart.”

Felix felt his heart skip a beat. He met Sylvain’s gaze, hard and serious. “I do.” He finished his wine, reached for the bottle for a second glass. “Do you have any objections?”

Sylvain watched him carefully. “No. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.” _Was his heart beating as hard as Felix's was?_

That sounded like a challenge if Felix had ever been given one; determination and affection welling in him full-force.

The Margrave chose that moment to finally grace them with his presence.

Despite being nearly twenty minutes late, he swept in with a casual amount of nonchalance. Felix, being of higher rank, had no need to stand when he entered the room, but did so anyway out of what _minute_ respect he had for him. It was just a gesture of good faith, really. The humor and glow that Sylvain had accumulated from their banter dissipated, the Margrave’s dark cloud smothering his warmth.

Margrave Gautier did not look like he had fought a five-year long war.

He had scars, yes, but they were old, and the way he moved about the castle made it obvious he had not seen a real battle in years, even if he did just come back from the border. Felix bristled, knowing he had used Sylvain as his human shield during the war. The Margrave did, however, look older. His hair had always been a darker shade than Sylvain’s—russet while Sylvain’s was copper—but it looked darker now, flecked with silver. His beard hid the way the skin under his jaw sagged, the frailness to his features. Sylvain was taller than his father, too. “Felix, Sylvain,” he greeted, “sorry to keep you both waiting.”

Felix cringed at the informality. “Your son has been an exceptional host. I hardly noticed the time passing.”

The Margrave raised a brow, seeming taken aback, but he smiled. He and Sylvain had the same fake, easy smile. “Is that so? I’m pleased to hear it.” He gestured to the table. “Sit! Let’s eat.”

They sat, and they ate. Sylvain asked his father about his trip, and they talked politics for far too long. It seemed to be the only thing they _could_ talk about, but Felix was suffocating under how forced the conversation was. He would admit he was impressed at the detailed questions Sylvain asked, though; the clever tactician in him gathering intel. As Felix admired him, he couldn’t help but think that if anyone could form a treaty with Sreng one day and end the centuries long feud between their countries, it would be Sylvain. He asked Felix the perfunctory, expected questions as well: how his territory was doing, how Fraldarius was faring, whether or not Felix had seen the king recently. He answered them flatly until the conversation was once again directed away from him.

Then, “Sylvain, have you heard from the Marquess?”

Both of them froze.

In all honesty, Felix had forgotten about Sylvain’s imminent proposal to _whomever_. It didn’t necessarily feel real to him until he heard it come from the Margrave himself.

“No, father, I haven’t. The storm was so bad we couldn’t reach anyone.”

The Margrave snorted. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

Sylvain, unable to help himself, rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to dash across Fódlan for an unofficial betrothal.”

“Besides,” Felix said, cutting in, “who would have been here to greet me otherwise? You’d leave your guest out on your front porch?” Both of them looked to Felix, as if suddenly remembering he was there. It was obvious they got into spats like this, became so wrapped up in their hatred for one another that it consumed them. “Margrave Gautier,” he continued, setting down his knife and dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “Your son is a decorated war hero, and yet you treat him like a child. Sylvain was a pillar during the war, both as a military commander and as a support for his people. There isn’t a single person in Gautier that doesn’t revere him. Sylvain and his troops saved countless villages from raids and prioritized humanitarian efforts and relief funds. _Sylvain_ is the reason anyone respects Gautier, after you turned it into a laughingstock of a territory. If you had a shred of decency or intellect, you would have passed your title down to him already.”

Felix rose from his chair, fingertips resting on the tablecloth. “Not only do you treat your son without respect, but you fail to show _me_ any, either. You’re late to our meeting, late to dinner, and refuse to refer to me by my proper title and status. If this is the way you wish to conduct business, Margrave, I have no desire to further our trade agreements. Fraldarius will happily take its funds elsewhere.” He straightened to his full height, then, eyes narrowed.

Both of them were stunned into silence, Sylvain’s eyes wide with shock and the Margrave looking flushed with rage. It took only a moment to process what Felix had said before Sylvain’s father was also on his feet. It seemed he had no intention of making amends or apologizing, but Felix never thought that’d be the case. “How _dare_ you—”

“Margrave Gautier,” Felix added, still as cool as ever, “you have no power anymore. Once the king hears of your behavior, you’ll be slowly frozen out; no one will associate with your or speak with you, and whatever Sylvain built for your house in the war will be forgotten. I’ll be leaving at first light. If you still desire to negotiate between our territories, I will only hear from Sylvain.”

He then turned and left before the Margrave could sputter out a response.

And after he left, Felix wasn’t quite sure where to go.

First came his own shock. He’d been wanting to say something to Sylvain’s father for years, but never had the authority to do so. He finally did. He wasn’t sure if it would accomplish what he’d wanted, but it was a start. Sylvain’s father was a coward, but like all nobles, he valued his status and prestige and would let nothing ruin it. He _knew_ Sylvain was his key to success, being his only heir and bearing a crest. He knew he had no right to say the things he did, and that it wasn’t his place to say. Sylvain had every right to stand up for himself, but… he hadn’t. Not after all this time. Felix had worked too hard to become his own person to just sit by and let it happen, though.

Second came the crash, a sudden emptiness inside of him as his ire died down. He craved to crawl back into bed, but he wasn’t even sure which bed to claim as his own. Of course he wanted to find his way back to Sylvain’s, to tuck himself into that nest of a bed they’d claimed as theirs for the past few days, snuggle into the blankets that smelled like him and let it lull him to sleep. Was it appropriate to do so, or would Sylvain expect him to go to his own bed? Felix wasn’t sure if he could stomach the thought of sleeping alone.

He found himself ambling for Sylvain’s room anyway.

In a normal situation, he would have taken to the training grounds to free himself of his residual angst, but that didn’t seem like an option at the moment. Most nobles had an indoor training grounds, closer to the keep, but the Gautier household prided itself on training under brutal conditions, and the cold of the training grounds did not sound too appealing to Felix. Some part of him, too, was tired of the violence. He would rather rewind to the previous night, when it was just the two of them and his room, wrapped up in one another. Once the door closed, Felix rested his back against it for a moment, exhaling softly. While he didn’t regret the things he said, he regretted that it may have come at Sylvain’s expense.

He took a moment to collect his things, at least tidy them into his bag, before he stole one of Sylvain’s cloaks from his wardrobe. Like the last time he wore his cloak, it was too long and bulky, but it draped around him and made him feel warm and secure. Felix secured his sword at his hip and stalked out into the snow, the first time he’d willingly done so since they arrived.

The wind brought a welcome bite as it gusted through him, bringing an instant flush to his cheeks as his body fought to keep warm. To Felix, he could not feel a difference between the temperature yesterday and today, even though he knew it had been warmer. The snow had melted off the paths looping though the grounds, and in some spots, grass could be seen peeking out from under mounds of white. Salt and gravel crunched under his boots instead of snow now, and the walk to the stables was smooth and easy. He could take his horse out now if he wanted, guided by the bright glow of the moon. He could hear the wyverns rustling in the next stable, probably eager to stretch their wings after so long inside.

He approached his horse’s stable, the beast already sticking its head out eagerly for him. Felix’s horse was a large black thing, all hard muscle and speed. He was not a rider like Sylvain, but he knew the importance of having a well-trained steed, and this horse had been with him his whole life. He could remember the day he got him; his father had gifted he and Glenn two foals. Felix, of course, had chosen the one as black as midnight, and Glenn had received the dapple grey.

Felix still had Glenn’s horse, and though it had never turned into the war machine their father and Glenn had hoped it would, it made for a lovely ride into the countryside.

His horse mouthed at the palm of his hand and Felix regretted not bringing a treat with him. While he still didn’t have a penchant for sugar, he’d usually bring a sugar cube along with him. Furthermore, he almost felt bad for not visiting sooner, but he knew his horse was well taken care of here. In the next stall, also eagerly poking his head out, was Sylvain’s horse, nosey and curious. He liked attention almost as much as his owner (while his own horse was not so interested in affection), and Felix found himself shifting to the next stall, letting Sylvain’s horse bury his head into his chest while he stroked the soft spot over his nose.

It didn’t take long before he heard footsteps outside, followed by the creak of the stable door as someone slipped inside. “There you are,” Sylvain groaned, sounding a little winded.

Felix smirked. “What, did you sprint across the castle to find me?”

“ _Yes_! You could’ve left a note, you inconsiderate bastard.” He exhaled loudly, crossing the distance between them and sliding his arms around Felix’s waist. He felt the immediate warmth against his back and couldn’t suppress a smile.

He tipped his head back, pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Worried?”

“A little. I thought you were going to do something stupid like ride off into the snow.” He paused, looking down at him. “You look good in my cloak.”

Felix shivered at the thought, the idea of being stuck in the cold all night literally horrifying him. It cancelled out the warmth he felt from Sylvain’s compliment and he resisted the urge to retort _I look good in anything of yours._ “I’d go to the tavern in town.” Sylvain’s horse shook his head, mane thrashing. Perhaps, similar to Sylvain, he was just as possessive when it came to attention. “Maybe let myself be seduced by a handsome barkeep…” The grip on his waist tightened considerably. “Just kidding, Sylvain.” He could practically feel Sylvain pouting. “What did your father say?”

The grip loosened and he nuzzled into Felix’s hair for a moment, which only caused him to feel a sense of dread. Felix wasn’t sure he wanted to know what his father had said. “Well, he blamed me, of course. Said I was slandering his name and that I’d turned you, and everyone else, against him. Then he told me to fix it.”

“How ominous.” He turned slowly to face him. “And how are you going to fix it?”

“Let’s draft a trade agreement, shall we?”

Sylvain whisked him back inside. To Felix’s slight dismay, they did not immediately return to Sylvain’s room, but instead he was led into what Felix could only assume was Sylvain’s office. “I didn’t know you had an office,” Felix remarked upon being dragged into the room. It was a lovely little place with large windows facing west. He could easily imagine Sylvain lounging in front of those large windows in the late afternoon sun as he scribbled out letters or signed off on papers. The room was more professional looking than his personal quarters; there were swords hanging above the fireplace instead of paintings of his horse, and there was a bookshelf arranged with various spellbooks as well as his medals and awards. Sylvain even had his Garreg Mach chess trophy displayed, which Felix found adorable. “Do we have to do this tonight?”

Something had changed in Sylvain, though, and he took the shape of someone Felix hadn’t seen since the war. He was sharper, suddenly, lordly in the way he stood with his shoulders back and his hands folded neatly on his desk. The whole look was, unfortunately, very appealing to Felix. He felt something stir in him at the little show of dominance, the pride that radiated off of Sylvain. He felt himself smirk, carefully undoing the clasp keeping Sylvain’s cloak around his shoulders. “Very well,” he said, letting it rest against the back of the chair that sat opposite of the Margrave’s son.

Suddenly, they were the perfect depiction of two nobles; opposites striving for individual causes. Felix did not think it suited them well, these facades they put on, but _they_ suited it. They were born for this, after all, had been bred and raised to become perfect toy soldiers. It felt like an ill-fitting skin, a contortion Felix could not quite sink into even if he was good at it.

The problem was this:

Gautier territory had been hit with a hard winter and had suffered during the war. Despite its efforts to fend off war from the north and the south, invasions still occurred, and it had resulted in a number of villages being scorched and destroyed. This included a significant number of farming and agricultural complexes. Gautier was a hard place to grow crops anyway, and they had to import most of their food source. Fraldarius, who had been active in the war to the point of frivolity, had suffered a huge loss in men that Felix attributed his father’s desperation and poor planning. Towards the end, he knew there was nothing Rodrigue would have spared if it meant saving Dimitri, and his death proved that. Felix was running his remaining troops ragged because they didn’t have anyone to spare.

Felix needed men, and Sylvain needed food. This was to be their trade.

A number of bandits had taken over the trade routes lining the borders between Fraldarius, Blaiddyd, and Galatea. Once the bandits were taken care of, Fraldarius could once again resume trade and export. Sylvain agreed to sending five hundred soldiers, personally escorted by himself, to clear the bandits and ensure safe travel along the trade routes. _Personally escorted_ was the little tidbit that Sylvain threw in with a smirk, securing his right to go with Felix back home. He also suggested helping Felix train a new round of soldiers, but the thought made him cringe. It felt too soon for that, even if it was a necessity. He wasn’t ready to employ more men for slaughter. The war was over, but the danger never ended.

The draft seemed too good to be true, too perfectly constructed, even if Sylvain had spent his time playing hardball with Felix. They argued and bartered, and by the time the final draft was finished, Felix was practically crawling across the desk to kiss him. He did, in fact. He shoved the document aside and hoisted himself onto the sturdy mahogany desk, Sylvain sitting stunned between his legs before he was hauled in for a deep kiss. “Politics get you goin’, darling?” he chuckled into his lips, sturdy hands resting on Felix's thighs, taking advantage of the way Felix easily spread them for him. “No wonder you like diplomacy.” 

Felix growled, nipping at his lip. “Don’t like diplomacy, just like you.”

Sylvain had no further complaints after that.

Four days later, Felix awoke in his bedroom, sunlight streaming through his windows and a familiar weight pressed against his back. Sylvain’s breath tickled his neck, an arm wrapped possessively around his waist.

He wasn’t sure how Sylvain had managed to pull it off, but he had gotten the Margrave to sign off on their agreement. Maybe he didn’t read it closely enough, or maybe he didn’t care anymore. It was too naïve to think that Felix’s little outburst had any kind of lasting effect on him, that it spurred him into thinking logically about how Sylvain was his only asset because if that were the case, he wouldn’t have let Sylvain leave.

It had taken an extra day for Sylvain to amass his troops. He had favorites, of course, that he wanted to bring with him. He had always been the kind of leader that got to know his subordinates and Felix had always admired that about him. He left Sylvain early, despite his reluctance to do so, but he trusted his friend—lover, whatever they were now—and so he went home to prepare for his arrival. His own staff was certainly surprised—but pleased—by the news. They were also incredibly worried, as his own ravens had been delayed and due to being preoccupied, he had not been as thorough as he should have. His steward chased after him for the majority of the afternoon, fretting over him, chastising him. Felix grinned and bore it because the steward had been in his family for so long (and sometimes, it felt like his staff was the only family he had left). He told them to prepare Sylvain’s rooms close to his own—and for them to not be surprised if the rooms went unused. He would need an office, and a stall for his horse, and—well, suffice to say it was easy for Felix to recall from memory the things Sylvain liked most; his favorite dinners, preferred firmness of his pillows, daily snacks and other small quality of life tidbits he’d stowed away.

As expected, the first night he slept rough. It was not nightmares that plagued him, but an empty bed, cold and sterile. He should have stolen one of Sylvain’s cloaks for the road, to curl up with during the late hours. The second night brought the nightmares—a crippling fear that the Margrave would shred their agreement and keep Sylvain. The third night brought Sylvain himself.

It was warmer in Fraldarius, clearly spring. The tulips had begun to bloom throughout the gardens and pollen was thick in the air. When Sylvain arrived, he was practically sweating in his thick armor, but that didn’t stop him from immediately jumping off his horse to greet Felix, picking him up and spinning him. After showering, they spent the rest of the afternoon in the hazy sun, soaking in warmth and each other’s company. Felix tickled his nose with a blade of grass until Sylvain wrestled it away from him, until they rolled and tousled and kissed and repeated the process. This was how it was always supposed to be, in Felix’s mind; the two of them, the sun and the sky.

Sylvain stirred behind him, rumbling softly before stretching. Personal space was not something Sylvain was familiar with on a normal day, but this was especially true in the mornings. Felix found a leg stretching over his hip, arm sweeping too close to his face and over his head. “You’re too long,” Felix groused, shoving the limbs away. This caused Sylvain to retract them, wrapping around him again.

“Hmm, not usually a complaint I get,” Sylvain hummed slyly, and Felix couldn’t help but hit his arm. He only laughed in response, fingers caressing the bare skin of Felix’s abdomen. It was almost _too warm_ at night now, with Sylvain there, but it worked out in his lover’s favor because it meant Felix was no longer trapped in layers upon layers of fabric. He could instead indulge in miles of skin—and he did, scattering kisses like constellations across his shoulders. It made him feel warm, a flush spreading from his ears to his chest. “What’s the plan for today, baby?”

It was Felix’s turn to grumble. They had to get up and get going, but five more minutes wouldn’t kill them. He captured Sylvain’s wandering hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. A normal day for Felix would start with training and breakfast, then paperwork until his hand cramped. Now he had something—someone—to look forward to, though, and he realized he would need to adjust his schedule to make room for another person. Due to his extended absence, there was _so much_ paperwork to catch up on; correspondence to reply to, deliberations and policies and budgets and other bureaucratic shit he didn’t want to deal with.

Felix turned over slowly so they were facing each other. Sylvain had that dopey, sleepy smile on his face again, eyes lighting up when they looked at each other. He could feel himself softening, too, unable to resist such a puppy-dog expression. “Well, if you’re not too busy, Gautier,” he said quietly, “I was hoping to take you on a date.”

The soft grin turned into a smirk. “I’ll have to check my schedule, but I think we can make that happen.” He cupped Felix’s jaw, thumb caressing his cheekbone affectionately. “I’m working with a duke who is pretty strict about staying on schedule,” he teased.

He quirked an eyebrow, resisting the urge to mimic the smirk, keeping his expression neutral as he replied with, “Well any level-headed man would, wouldn’t they? You’re right. You should work instead.”

The dread that sank into Sylvain’s features almost, _almost_ made him feel bad for teasing him so. “That’s not what I meant—”

“—so no date until your paperwork is finished,” Felix finished for him, ending it with a brief kiss on the lips.

“Aw, _Fe_ ,” Sylvain whined, “I was just joking!”

Taking pity on him, Felix leaned up again, kissing him longer this time, until the tension died from Sylvain’s shoulders and he was melting into him. It was nice to feel wanted, to be craved; every time he tried to pull back, Sylvain chased him, wanting more. When he finally let Felix have a moment to form words, he whispered, “We have all the time in the world, Sylvain. There’s no need to rush.”

This didn’t quell him, though, his hands wandering down Felix’s sides, over his hip, down the expanse of a thigh. “I think we’ve both waited long enough, don’t you?” he replied sweetly, his words like syrup.

Felix hummed gently. Sylvain was right, as per usual. He couldn’t think of a time when he wasn’t in love with Sylvain on some level—the friend that had always been there for him, the one who had always chosen him and believed in him. It was Felix’s turn to cup Sylvain’s face, steadying him before he indulged in another kiss. Sylvain maneuvered them so that Felix was flat against the bed, trapped between his thighs. “Fine, five more minutes,” he acquiesced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along on this ride with me! This is my first multi-chapter fic and tbh... I remember why... Plots are hard and boring.  
> No plot only write! No plot only fluff!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and kudos'd and commented I love you all.  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) | [tumblr](https://officialvampyr.tumblr.com/)


End file.
